


Love's Causality

by sleepingseeker



Category: Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles (TV 2012)
Genre: Acceptance, Amputation, F/M, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Rejection, Resentment, Romance, Sibling Rivalry, family stress
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-13
Updated: 2015-09-24
Packaged: 2018-02-08 18:15:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 77,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1951197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sleepingseeker/pseuds/sleepingseeker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>A/N:So, I was thinking about April and Donatello but also this evening, I was messing around and reading words - I love words - thinking about them, their origins, meanings, uses and quotes about the meanings and themes, etc. Well, I came across the word causality and … well…erm, this just . . . sort of happened…</p>
    </blockquote>





	1. A Cause

**Author's Note:**

> A/N:So, I was thinking about April and Donatello but also this evening, I was messing around and reading words - I love words - thinking about them, their origins, meanings, uses and quotes about the meanings and themes, etc. Well, I came across the word causality and … well…erm, this just . . . sort of happened…

_'Causality is an active relationship, a relationship which brings to life some thing new, which turns possibility into actuality.'_  –Dialectical Materialism (A. Spirkin)

**Chapter 1 - A Cause**

* * *

His left hand, his dominant hand, what remained of it, was shaking; despite pinching his elbow and forearm between his knees to help steady it. He was bent over at an angle, behind the crates, listening to his brothers finish the battle with the techbots. The newest assault weaponry that Baxter had developed for the Shredder. A mix between soldier and airborne drone, Mikey had dubbed them Skippers because of the way they'd move: a series of quick skips until they'd become airborne for short bursts of time hovering twelve feet off the ground; firing lasers down on them. They were not playthings. They were heavy weaponry. And he and his brothers were not prepared. Not for something like this.

He'd shouted to his brother who stood gaping and trying to come up with a clever name as the four drones came at them to get to cover. That's when he was hit. The laser tore through his flesh with a searing jolt that incinerated his bo and left him to stand in shock as he watched his flesh burn away, revealing the shockingly white bones of his hand and wrist between the blackened muscle and tendons. He didn't register pain at all. In that moment there was only the shock of the impact. The shock of the sight of skin and meat disintegrating before his eyes.

"My hand," he said, still staring, numb and rooted to the spot. Out in the open. A pair of barrels raised and took aim. Twin dots, red and glowing merged on a point at his temple. Raph had barreled into him. Saved him. Had he stood but a second longer he would've had a skull for a head.

_What was I thinking? Bonehead move, to not get to cover immediately_ , he thought and giggled at the ridiculous imagery and choice of wording. He looked up, momentarily giving up on trying to wrap his badly injured hand. He realized that the shock was hitting him now, full force. That was bad. Shock could kill you. That or lasers to the skull. Again he giggled and shook his head, tears running down the sides of his cheeks; hot against the chilled skin.

Vaguely, he realized how cold he'd become, barely able to keep grasp of the bandage he was trying to work around his injury. It fell onto the floor next to one knee. His fingers were scrambling as they tried to take hold of the end of the bandage. But his arm would not stop quaking and his fingers felt like they were attached to someone else's body. His injured arm kept popping free from between his knees, slippery from the blood. He snagged the end of the ragged bandage between numb lips, held it fast between gritted, slightly chattering, teeth. He grimaced as he attempted to twine the end around his hand and wrist once more. At least the heat cauterized the arteries for the most part. Still there were enough blood vessels spilling his precious fluids onto his legs and floor in front of him.

The room spun. He pitched to one side and caught himself with his hip. His brothers were yelling about finishing the last one. Leonardo was ordering them to flank and strike. He hoped no one else was hit. By the sounds of the battle, he doubted it. Besides, only he would stand stock-still in the center of a room after telling someone else to get to cover. What did Raph call him all the time . . .  _genius_? He giggled once more, dropping the end of the bandage that was held between his teeth to flutter over his chest.

"Oh, I'm a genius all right," he whispered and his voice sounded funny in his ears. Choked. He didn't recognize it. He took in a shuddering breath. He braced the back of his head against the crate and closed his eyes for a moment.

It hurt. It hurt worse than anything he'd ever had to endure before. And he could only push back the cold rationality, the calculations of his odds of recovering full use of hand after such massive damage. Of what this injury would mean for him. For his future. He tried to move the blackened stumps of flesh that were once his fingers. He scowled and grimaced, sucking in his breath. He gripped his wrist, wincing in pain and tried again. Nothing.  _Not nerve damage, please, I won't be able to use this hand properly if the nerves are severed._  He frowned and stared at the bones showing through the lumps and strings of the translucent inner flesh and sinew between the bits of charred chunks of muscle. Of his hand, there was very little left, actually. Even if he got home, hell, if he was home right now, in this very instant, there was very little any of them could actually do to fix this. Not to mention that the chances of healing without developing a serious infection were slim.

And if that happened . . . The trembling turned to quaking and his body felt as if he'd been dipped in ice water. The word,  _amputation_ , filled his mind. He choked on a sob.

No. He couldn't give up. There was always a chance, right? He wiped the sweat from his chin with his shoulder and blinked twice, trying to clear his blurred vision. Wondering why he couldn't see properly.  _Can't stop now. Push the logic away._ What was Leo always on about?  _Pushing forward. Onward. Charging ahead, or was that Raph? Where there's life, there's . . .something,_  he couldn't remember the quote.  _Oh yeah, a chance. A hope_. He shook his head and rocked. Something like that. Yes. Hope. He had to stay hopeful. What would April think if she saw him now? Giving up so easily. Giving into his fear like a coward.

_I'm sure I'll be fine_ , he lied to himself. But like Leo, Donatello was a poor liar. Even when it came to lying to himself.  _Just fine. It's not so bad. I'll be fine._

Of course, he didn't have a state of the art facility he was running to for treatment. He didn't have a staff of highly trained surgeons ready to go to work on him immediately upon arrival.  _Think positive, Donnie! Master Splinter always says it helps! Let's see, what do I have? I have a lab in the sewers that would make a refugee camp look like the Mayo Clinic and a large rat to attend to my wounds._  He giggled through grinding teeth and blurring tears.  _I'm fucked_.

Still, he set to the task of using his thumb and finger to pinch the bandage from the floor and begin again. Why was this so hard? He sat forward, folding over his arm and bent legs; swearing in frustration and despair, but his voice was weaker now and his cursing was a mere murmur.

" _Dammit_. Oh, god . . ."

Mikey fell next to him. Voice hysterical and too loud in his ears, "Donnie! They're gone. Are you . . ."

He jumped and shuddered. The bandages that had made it around his wounds weren't wrapped securely and they spiraled off his forearm like a spring. He watched it happen with a morose sense of detachment. He turned his head to look up at Michelangelo. It was hard to see. Was the room filling with smoke? All he could make out were Mikey's blue eyes. They seemed huge as they bounced between the mess of jagged flesh that remained of his hand and his other brothers running towards him.

"I'm in shock," he said in a calm voice and his eyes rolled up into his head. He teetered and felt Mikey's hands, so hot they felt as though they were searing through his flesh, catch him.

"Hurry guys! He's gonna pass . . ."


	2. Tempting Fate

* * *

April's eyes cracked open as the sound came again. The steady repeating buzz of something mechanical. Annoyed and with blurred vision, she scanned her nightstand for the source of the noise. There next to the alarm clock, vibrating like an angry over-sized beetle was her T-phone. Her eyes snapped open and she snatched it off the stand as she sat up. She flipped it open as she noted the time. Four a.m.  _Ugh, this better be important._

"Yeah, hello?" she croaked.

The line was static and then there was a pause. Her frown deepened. She rubbed one eye. There was a confused jumble of sounds in the background. Metal scraping, shouts, Master Splinter barking orders, then wheels or something squealing. She listened harder. Her blood ran cold as she realized with a start that it wasn't metal. Someone in pain. Someone was making that sound. Then his voice came on, overriding the chaos. Raphael. His voice was thick.

"April," he paused.

"Y-Yeah, Raph. What's going on? What's that sound? Is . . . Is someone hurt?" she asked stupidly, knowing just by the way he said her name that he was upset.

"You better get down here."

"W-Wait! Raph, who . . ." her voice stuck in her throat and she couldn't finish the question.

There was another pause and she distinctly heard Master Splinter order Mikey to get the electric blanket, that he was in shock.

"Just hurry up," came Raphael's terse reply.

She tossed the over-stuffed backpack to one side and vaulted over the turnstiles. Still in her pajama bottoms and a sweat shirt, sneakers thrown on without socks. She had packed a few things in case she would have to stay for a while in the lair. She wasn't sure what was telling her to plan ahead like that, but she didn't question her instinct. Ever since being taken by the Kraang, she trusted more and more on that inner voice to guide her. She searched the room for any sign of anyone. The lair was quiet. But it wasn't the hush of a peaceful morning. It wasn't the sleepy silence just before going to bed. This was an ominous cloak of withheld breath. Of invisible fingers choking the sound from the air. Leaving the occupants of the room mute and pale.

Mikey stood up from the couch, rising as she moved into the living room. He looked terrified. Her heart sped up but her mind remained calm. She counted down. Two. Raphael was one. Mikey was two. Where was Leonardo? Where was Donatello?

"What happened?" she asked in a mostly steady voice, swallowing back her fear.

Mikey reached out and took her hands in his. She noticed how clammy they were and how they trembled. His mouth opened and closed and he shook his head.

"Easy. First just tell me if everyone's okay."

He shook his head again and in a strangled voice he said, "Donnie."

April felt a lightheaded giddiness hit her. A visceral blow somewhere between her heart and her stomach. Then the room tipped. The next thing she knew, Mikey was supporting her. Her legs would not do their job. Blinking in confusion, he eased her into the love-seat just behind her. Her heart was hammering and her mouth was dry. And all she could think was,  _Not Donnie. Not him. Not him._

She was babbling and snapped her mouth shut as the words she was saying hit her, "But I never . . . I haven't . . . I . . . haven't had a chance to-" What was she saying? What was she feeling? It was happening too fast. It couldn't be over. Not now.  _Not him_. Mikey's voice broke through the jumbled mess of her mind before she spiraled out of touch again.

"Oh, gosh, April. I-I'm sorry. I-I didn't mean to . . . he's okay. Well, not really. But still breathing, I mean. Yeah, he's alive," he chuckled then, a nervous sound, almost hysterical. "He saved me. I-I was standing there and trying to think of a name . . . b-but I didn't think they'd, uh, I wasn't thinking. As usual. I'm so stupid." He ducked his head and suddenly the color of his face shifted and he looked like he was about to be sick. "I'm so stupid," he repeated in a small voice.

She licked her dry lips and exhaled. "Mikey, shhh, no. Don't say that. Why don't you . . . just, start from the beginning."

He nodded. "Right. Okay. The beginning. I was . . . I was playing Space Heroes Artic Adventure when Donnie got a-a message thingy on his Kraang tracker thing and I uh, well, we went and then, there was this big boat docked outside a huge warehouse with all these Kraang-bots unloading crates and then we snuck up," he indicated with his fingers pressing into his palm like legs walking. "And Raph was like, 'let's go kick ass!'" he said in a fair imitation of his grumpy brother. Then shifted his voice into a more deep and commanding tone when he spoke for Leonardo, "Leo was like, 'No, we should scout around the building first.' And they started to argue and that's when Donnie and I slipped inside. I saw them first. I thought they were really cool at first . . . like something out of one of Leo's space shows."

April sat up as Raphael bolted from the lab, interrupting Mikey's retelling of what had happened.

"Why are you sitting around for, Mikey," he snapped. Then spotting April, he froze, eyes going wide. "Oh, uh, April. Did Mikey tell you what happened?"

"He was starting to. You fought Kraang?" Before she could ask anything else, he cut in.

"Something like that. Don got hurt." He put up his hands as she jumped to her feet. "Master Splinter says he'll be okay, but . . . b-but . . ."

_"What!?"_  she shouted, and instantly regretted the outburst as both brothers jumped. But she was so frightened and no one was actually telling her what had happened. She needed answers and needed them  _now_.

"His hand. His left hand. It got hit. With one of those lasers." He rubbed his face and crossed his arms, staring at the floor between them. "I only got a quick look, Leo and Master Splinter wouldn't let me see . . ."

April didn't know when she did it, or how she managed to find the strength in her legs to do so, but she had crossed the room and had placed one hand on Raphael's arm, the other was pressed hard against her churning stomach.

He panted and swallowed then added, "It was burned. Really badly. Like almost  _gone_."

Mikey made a soft desperate noise behind them. "It's all my fault."

For now, April focused on Raph as he went on, ignoring the way her vision was darkening at the edges. "It didn't look like much was left." His chin trembled and his eyes got huge and glassy. He straightened suddenly; wiping his eyes roughly with the back of his hand. He squinted and reemerged with a determined expression on his face.

"He was out. But now he was waking up and he's in a lot of pain. I gotta get the water and alcohol. Mikey," he snapped and Michelangelo jumped. "Sensei wants his herbs." The youngest gave him a blank look. "You know, the ones he uses when he needs to knock us out! In the little cabinet by his personal junk." Mikey blinked. Raph hollered, "The small black bag by the stuff we ain't supposed to touch!" With that Mikey nodded and dashed to Splinter's chambers and headed directly to the small cabinet full of things that were off-limits but each of them knew exactly what was inside. Special candles and incense and herbs and other odds and ends that were often peeked at but never removed. Raph went back to rushing from the kitchen to the lab, leaving April to stand in frightful misery.

His hand.

His hand was burned.

Not much left.

Her eyes shot to the lab door. The room that Donatello usually spent most of his time in; inventing, experimenting, working. What would he do without the use of his dominant hand? She knew he was a lefty. Had teased him often about it being worse than only having three fingers because of the lack of decent tools for left-handed folks. She ran a hand through her hair, feeling sick and wanting only to be next to him. But unless they told her otherwise, she would not get in the way. Donatello deserved every chance he had to recover and if they needed space to work on him, she would not crowd them. There'd be time to support him afterwards. Right? Fear rocked her.

She shook her head and banished any doubt from her mind; chased away the irrational desire to run back home as fast as she could. No way was she going to bolt now. Donatello was going to need her. And whatever it took, she would be there for him.

"Hold him, Leonardo."

"I-I'm trying," Leo ground out as he held Donatello's shoulders back, one arm wrapped around Donatello's throat, doing his best to keep his brother still. But Donnie, despite being unconscious, continued to squirm and buck. Moaning and grinding his teeth.

"Do not try!  _Do_!" Splinter growled and Leonardo flinched.

Splinter applied the alcohol and Donatello bucked furiously. He knocked Leo back and off the table. His eyes popped open and he screamed as his legs kicked and jerked. His body shuddered and he curled to one side, whimpering and howling in pain.

_"Leonardo!"_

Leo scrambled to his feet and moved to hold his brother down as Donatello thrashed against him. A fist slipped free and struck Leonardo in the snout. His vision exploded in a flash of pain. He shook it off, eyes watering from the pain but also from the exertion. He grappled and locked his brother's long limb in place. But Don continued to buck and struggle; groaning and grunting as Splinter did his best to clean the ravaged remains of his son's hand and wrist. Twice more his injured arm jerked and Splinter felt his son shudder in pain as he gripped him harder. He spun on Leonardo.

"If you cannot be of use, then send Raphael back in here!"

"H-Hai, Master," Leo replied in a strained voice, staring at his brother's body as he redoubled his efforts to keep him still. His heart was hammering against his rib-cage and he was having trouble keeping hold due to the amount of blood now covering his hands. His eyes blurred and he swore under his breath as his feet slid to brace himself better and he fumbled once more.

His father needed him to remain calm but he was losing his grip on that as well. He knew he should run out and fetch Raphael, should admit that he was doing the best that he could, and failing to be of any use whatsoever, but Splinter had just sent Raphael out of the room to catch his breath after he nearly fainted a moment ago. Mikey wouldn't come near the room. It was up to him. His father was counting on him to stay strong. He couldn't let him or Donatello down. He pushed away his fear and did his best to fortify himself.

But he couldn't blot out the sounds Donatello was making from the terrible pain. The groaning that rose to sharp pitched whines of anguish. His eyes kept going from Donatello's ashen face to his brother's hand. Kept seeing the bones, the tendons stretched and torn, the blackened peeled skin, and the blood . . . the blood. It was on everything. Sticky and syrupy. Thick and wrong. Just . . . wrong. The smell of burnt flesh like something rancid and broiled, the coppery raw scent of the blood was too strong.

Suddenly the room was spinning and the colors grew garish and too vivid. His gorge rose and he turned his head in time to be sick on the floor. When he surfaced, Splinter was looking over his shoulder at him. He shrank into himself as the disappointment in his father's eyes pierced him; pinning him like an insect under glass. But an instant later, Splinter's countenance softened.

"Fetch Michelangelo with my bag. Get some fresh air."

Feeling more than useless, Leonardo scrambled to the door and yanked it open. Mikey was standing outside with the bag in his fists. Beyond him, April was kneeling on the floor next to Raphael, offering him a mug of something steaming. She looked up. Her eyes fell onto his blood stained hands and she blanched.

Mikey's eyes roved over Leonardo's shoulder, face pale. "Can I stay out here?" Mikey asked, in a small voice, his head low between his shoulders.

Leo moved to clap him on the shoulder, but remembering the blood, stopped himself. He nodded. "It's fine. I'll bring this in."

From across the room, April asked, "Can I see him? Is he okay? Is he awake?"

Leonardo shook his head and backed into the room before quietly closing the door. Splinter braced his hands across Donatello's shoulders as Leonardo approached. He raised a brow.

"I told you to get Michelangelo-"

"Mikey can't do it."

Splinter rolled his eyes up to the ceiling. He muttered something under his breath in Japanese. Sometimes it was easy to forget that his ninja were only children playing at being warriors. He huffed through his nose and eyed Leonardo sharply.

"You must do as I say."

Leo straightened up. Ready to accept his second chance. "I will."

Splinter sighed. "He will need the red pouch. There are capsules inside. Give him two. Place them into his mouth."

With hands that trembled, Leo searched inside the bag and produced the bag. He fumbled and finally pulled the strings to open it and pinched out two oddly shaped pills; chalky and pinkish gray. They stuck to his fingers from the blood and Leo did his best not to think about it.

"Got them."

"Put them into your brother's mouth," Splinter said as he returned to murmuring softly into Donnie's ears to be calm.

Leo did as he was told, but it was hard because Donatello was clenching his jaw. He tried again and nearly dropped the tiny pills. He made a desperate sound and Splinter reached up. He squeezed his brother's cheeks until his mouth opened with a gut-wrenching whimper. His legs kicked feebly. Leo's eyes snapped to Splinter, but he was concentrating on Donnie's face. He dropped the pills into Donatello's mouth.

"I am not trying to hurt you, my son. Swallow. Swallow this now. You will be at peace." Splinter held his hand over Donatello's mouth as he shook his head weakly from side to side. Twin tears streaked down his face, leaving light green lines through the grime and blood. He choked and his throat worked.

"W-What are they?"

Only now did Splinter's amber eyes shoot to Leonardo. "They will bring him no harm. They will make him sleep. Deeply."

And as Splinter said the words, Donatello's body seemed to collapse all at once and lay heavy and still against the stained cot. His head lulled to one side. His breathing was soft pants and a low whimper with each exhale. Splinter closed his eyes, with a slight heave, he straightened up and set to finishing cleaning the wound. But first he pulled the blanket his son had kicked free up and over his legs. Leonardo reached out with one hand and held his brother's arm.

"Use the warm water to sponge him down, Leonardo. Then go clean yourself."

Leo nodded. With an exhale of relief and exhaustion, thinking his father had, as usual, come to the rescue and made everything better, he said, "I'm glad the worst is over."

Splinter paused. He turned his head to speak over his shoulder. "Do not say such things in the face of tragic events, my son. You tempt fate with your arrogant naiveté."

Leonardo ducked his head and dropped his eyes. Suddenly ashamed. His cheeks flared. He didn't mean anything by it and his father's superstitions often left him confused and anxious. Something Donatello would refute as nonsense whenever Leo tried to talk with him about it. He'd never say that to Splinter's face, of course. But Donatello did not believe in anything outside of science. But despite his brother's assurances that there was nothing to Splinter's eccentric spiritual beliefs, Leo often found himself wondering if he believed in the same 'silly' notions or not. His father seemed rooted to his convictions. And Leonardo tended to lean towards whatever his sensei put faith in. He felt cold and a little sick and wished he could take back what he'd just said. His stomach started to hurt as the adrenaline wore off, leaving him feeling spent and shaky.

"I . . . I didn't mean. I know it's bad. I just meant, for-for now . . . that he's sleeping and you can fix his hand."

Splinter shook his head. "I cannot fix this, Leonardo. His hand was severely injured." As Leonardo's face mottled, Splinter softened his tone. But he was not going to spare his oldest son the truth of the matter. If any of them had to build the strength to face reality head-on, it was Leonardo. "My son, you passed him through miles of sewers to get to our home, if he does not develop an infection, then you may thank the spirits that the worst is past. Until then, there is much at risk."

Leo swallowed dryly and nodded his head, unable to speak.

"Get to work," Splinter said and with a heavy sigh, he returned to the gruesome sight of what remained of his child's extremity; knowing that it was unlikely that Donatello would ever be able to use it properly again. His shaking hands balled into quivering fists and he needed a moment to collect himself. Not for the first time, he wished he were human again, with the deft fingers and thumbs that held no sharp claws to inadvertently scratch and add to the chances of infection. He knew that as a mutant rat that there was a chance that he carried bacteria simply on his flesh that may come to hurt his child. He said a quick prayer to protect his child from further harm and attended the oozing wounds with steadier hands. For there was no one else that could help his boy. And he had to do with what he'd been given.


	3. Borrowed Strength

**Chapter 3 – Borrowed Strength**

* * *

An hour later, Leonardo emerged from the room, looking haggard and drawn. Raphael brought him a mug of cocoa that he looked at but couldn't even think of taking. His stomach, much like the rest of him, felt raw and sensitive. His arms hung heavy at his sides.

"Here, Leo," Raph said quietly. "You okay?"

He wrinkled his nose at the bitter scent and tilted his head back. Raph offered it up and Leo turned away without a word, too tired to politely refuse the offer, too spent to speak just then. He just wanted to sit down and catch his breath. He skirted slowly around Raph towards the couch where April and Mikey sat watching him with similar expressions of hopeful anxiety and dread.

Raph looked at the mug in his hands and felt a flash of irritation. He stomped into the kitchen and poured the contents down the drain. It took some effort not to smash the porcelain mug into the basin, but he controlled himself. Leave it to Leo to act better than all of them at a time like this. He gripped the edge of the sink and did his best to calm down. It wasn't his fault that he . . . he almost fainted like a weakling in there. It was just that he wasn't expecting . . . he didn't realize how bad . . . The image of the finger bones poking through the smoking flesh came at him and his stomach lurched as black spots washed the edges of his vision in darkness.

"Dammit," he ground out.

He had to get a grip already. He swallowed and the taste of bile was nearly enough to push him over the edge. He pressed his hand to his mouth and looked into the living room to see Leo talking in a low voice with April. He huffed. And of course Fearless had to be the hero. Staying in there with Splinter the entire time and then coming out like it was nothing. Like he didn't need anything as comforting as the cocoa he'd made for him . . . or a soft spoken word from his stupid lunk-head of a brother. With a sigh he moved into the room with them as Splinter crept from the lab, closing the door behind him but leaving it open just a crack.

All faces turned in Splinter's direction. Leo stood up and immediately hurried into the kitchen past Raph to get a kettle of water on for tea. Raph gritted his teeth, thinking sour thoughts about his brother being the biggest kiss-up, but said nothing. Even Raph understood this wasn't a time for petty bickering that would get nothing accomplished. He set his hurt to one side. April closed in on Splinter as he moved towards the couch.

Splinter wiped his hands on a blood-splattered rag. He gave their friend a tentative glance. April approached him as if he were an explosive device set to go off with the slightest motion. Her hands were clasped together and pressed between her breasts.

"Splinter? How is he?"

Splinter considered the question, his amber eyes flicking from her young face to the floor before he spoke. Deciding at the last second to be as truthful as possible. "Donatello sustained a terrible injury. He is unconscious for now." He paused. "The likelihood that he will be . . . that his hand will . . ." he shook his head and sighed as April's face grew paler; eyes brighter as they grew wider. The freckles spattered across her nose and cheeks stood out in contrast to the gray of her skin. She appeared much younger than her years. Fragile and delicate. Despite this illusion, he knew it was folly to lie to her. She would learn of his condition soon enough. Besides that, the girl was strong. In some ways, stronger than his sons.

She'd displayed courage time and again in the face of enemies, resilience when her father was taken from her and mutated; her friendship with his sons endeared her to him, her patience with them was a gift; a steady, enduring heart beat within her chest. Just being near her brought out a paternal inclination that was unlike what he felt towards his boys. It was softer, less rigid and more compassionate. When she was around he missed Miwa with a fierce ache. At once he was weakened by April's affection and strengthened. It was good that she was there, now.

"We will have to keep hope in our hearts that I will not be forced to remove the damaged limb. However, I fear that may be the outcome, after all."

The words he spoke struck like tiny blows. Miniature fractures erupted and spread through her heart. She absorbed his words and as they settled with their meaning intact, coming together like a puzzle to form an awful picture of the bleak situation, she reeled. She pressed a hand to her mouth. She shook her head. Donatello would lose his hand. Because of a spattering of seconds where he was not careful enough. When he moved a fraction of a space between complacent normality and irrevocable consequence. In the blink of an eye, his life was to be changed, forever. It was too horrible.

"But he needs both hands, Splinter," she said weakly, noting how stupid she sounded as the room titled.

Splinter jerked forward. He grabbed her shoulder as she swayed. She blinked with glassy eyes, confused and frightened. She hadn't meant to startle him. She pulled herself together and noted that she couldn't stop shivering. With a gentleness only a father could wield, he guided her back to the couch. Once she slumped onto the cushion next to his son, Raphael, who threw an arm around her shoulders, she murmured, just loud enough for them to hear, "He'll be okay. It won't come to that."

Splinter nodded sadly. If only it could be that simple. To will something to be or not to be reality. There would be so much he would fix. So many mistakes along the path of his life that he would correct.

On the other side of April, Mikey wrapped his arms around his middle and he shook his head in misery. "It's all my fault," he mumbled.

Splinter inched to one side until he stood in front of his youngest boy. He stroked Mikey across his head and gave him a reassuring pat on his cheek. "Do not fret, my son. It is not your fault. When you and your brothers go out into battle, you each run the risk of a mishap . . . a miscalculation. Your foes are many and their ingenuity and cunning more than a match for even the most skilled of ninja."

Mikey looked up at him, eyes brimming with tears, full of misery. "B-But I stood there, like an  _idiot,_  trying to think of a name. If Donnie hadn't shoved me out of the way, that woulda been my face!"

Splinter shook his head sharply. "No more of this. Holding onto guilt for something that you did not do does nothing to improve the situation. Not for you or your brother. Do you understand me?" he snapped, eyes flashing with irritation.

Mikey flinched at his father's tone. He nodded morosely and took in a broken breath. April leaned gently into him. She felt him press back, and both took comfort in the contact.

Splinter wished he could offer more words of comfort and fewer sharp commands, but perhaps that was what his child needed right now. He did not mean to be harsh, to any of them. He did not want to add to their stress. He ran a hand over his face, ears flattened. He could not think straight about parenting right now. His mind was a jumbled mess; his heart, battered and wounded by the past several hours' events as well as what no doubt lay ahead for his boy. A shiver of ill foreboding passed through him. He couldn't think about that now. He needed to sit for a moment. Collect himself. Gain his composure and calm. Set the example for his boys.

He turned and dropped the soiled rag to the coffee table, feeling his children and April's gazes each fall in unison to stare at the stains, a painted testimony to Donatello's suffering. Splinter sat heavily, opposite from April, into the loveseat's plump cushion. Leo entered the room, a mug in his hand. All of them huddled closer with an unconscious need for contact; for comfort. The air hung silent and full of apprehension. Splinter took the proffered tea from Leonardo with a slight nod. Raph and Leo noticed the way their father's hands shook as he reached out for it. They exchanged quick worried glances. Leonardo moved backwards and sat on the edge of the sofa, ready to get his father whatever else he may need, despite his exhaustion. He perched there next to Mikey who flanked April on one side with Raph on the furthest end, one arm still braced across April's shoulders without realizing it.

"I have done what I could." He glanced at his claws with some revulsion; withholding his fears that he had merely exacerbated the situation by handling his child with his own bare hands. He swallowed. "He will need time to rest. Keep the lair quiet." Splinter wondered how long his remedy would keep Donatello under the refuge of sleep. Sweeping his vision across his gathered family, he read in their expressions the worry and exhaustion etched around their eyes, the grim lines of their pressed lips, the rigid way they held their shoulders, hands clasped together, knuckles pale.

"You should all rest while he is at peace."

Splinter gazed down into the swirling steam, feeling his age. The herbal scent should have been comforting. It stung his sensitive nose. He felt dizzy; his body and limbs loose and weighed down all at once. The struggling and whimpers of his child in the throes of anguish haunted the edges of his mind. He understood that they would for quite some time; knowing that the worst was still to come.

How could this have happened to his boy? His jaw clenched and released. If there was anyone to be angry with, it was himself. A feeling like grief washed through him. How useless he was. How pathetic in this form. What he would have given to have been able to take his boy to a hospital! His chest tightened. His clawed fingers pressed into the sides of the mug. The heat of the tea permeating the porcelain reminded him of his child's temperature.

Donatello had felt so warm as he wrapped the injured remains of his hand and arm. Unnaturally so. He knew what it meant. Fever. His breathing turned shallow. The fever indicated what he feared most: infection.

The hand would have to be removed. There was no doubt. To save his life, he would have to take the child's hand and possibly part of his arm. But how? How could he do that without incurring more damage? He was not a doctor. His first aid knowledge was limited at best. Setting a broken bone or awkwardly stitching a gash was the extent of the experiences he knew over the years in raising four independent and wild boys. Watching over one with the flu through the long hours of the night. But removing a limb? Doing so in such a way that it did not lead to more damage or worse infection?

Despair dragged at him. And he would have cried out in frustration had he been alone. But the weight of his family's eyes were upon him and they alone were what kept him from losing his composure. They wanted reassurances and hope where there was none to give. He needed to remain positive and thank god that he still had his child. But he felt unable to muster the courage needed to be grateful just then. There was no room for gratitude in his angry, exhausted heart just then. And he had nothing to give to his family. He could not bear even to look his children in the eye and tell them lies. He'd failed to keep their brother whole. This failure a symptom of his cursed mutation, limiting his access to medicine and medical care for his family, the ones he was tasked to keep safe and secure. To provide and look after. He had failed.

This acknowledgement of his failings drew his exhausted body deeper into the chair. He blinked hard and squinted. He was so very tired. Tired of the struggle. Tired of enduring in a world that put all its efforts into placing obstacles in the way of their survival. Tired of the very nature of man. So cruel and ignorant. His child suffering without justification for it. And so much more to come. There was no reason for his boy to have lost his hand. His dominant hand. His poor boy. His gentle intellectual marvel. And the world cared not for his hardship and pain. One mutant child's pain meant nothing. There would be no safe harbor, no sanctuary from the prejudice against his boy for the way he was created should they seek outside help. He would be given no aid by the human world above. What waited above was merely more pain, more terror.

How could this have happened? He should have prepared them better. Trained them harder. This was his fault for failing at protecting them, for failing at securing their safety. He was a sorry excuse for a father. He should have never let them go above. He should have gone with them this evening. Guilt tore at his insides. The dizziness returned.

"He'll be okay, guys." April's voice brought him surfacing from his traitorous thoughts. She was holding Mikey and Raph's hands each in one of her own. Her eyes were bright and her face flushed with the steady determination of youth. "We'll get him through whatever comes next."

He stared curiously at the girl. Admiration bloomed inside his heart. Such strength after all she'd been put through. She was doing a better job at setting an example than he. It shamed him. He had to pull himself together. It did no good to sit and sulk about the world. None of this was new to him or his family. He had to be strong. For his children. Donatello, who was usually the one to administer care to his siblings would not be able to help him now. He may be able to answer a few questions, should he awaken and be lucid. Anything that this girl could offer in the way of help, whether it be encouragement, or fetching supplies and medicine, would be a godsend. Not for the first time, Splinter was deeply grateful that she was in their lives.

Yes. She could help them. There would need to be supplies gathered if not available in the lab. He would need antibiotics. Sterile equipment to sever the hand . . . something to help his child with the pain.

He would need to . . . need to . . . pray. He cradled the mug in his hands and listened to the sound of her voice reassuring his sons with gentle words. His eyes drifted shut as he, too, found some comfort there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: A big THANK YOU to theincredibledancingBetty who has offered sound advice and help with all things concerning amputation and the trouble that can arise from the situation, like gangrene, yay! LOL - Seriously, I could not do this without your help, Betty!
> 
> And I would not be writing without all you guys/gals following, favoriting and reviewing - so THANK YOU as well!


	4. What the Heart Knows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No one said that falling in love was simple.

The ceiling danced in jerking motions, first to the left, then to the right, until he realized he needed to focus on one spot in order for the movement to cease. But the lucid thought was gone nearly as soon as it took shape, replaced by colors that swam and spiraled, turning his stomach. Ugly colors; greenish grey and muted yellow; the colors of exposed organs. He turned his head and moaned.

A repeating image flashed between the opaque formless blots before his eyes: one of his hand, solid and strong before his face, bo clutched tightly with thick fingers, being illuminated by a blinding flash of pink-tinged light; the healthy emerald hue of his flesh glowing brightly then swelling rapidly only to deflate and collapse as the appendage blackened. What remained of his hand turning to ash, flaking in the air before his watering eyes; turning like embers caught in an updraft; the roaring of his blood in his ears as it was overtaken by the guttural shriek of his brother, Raphael, knocking him to safety before his face followed the fate of his hand.

He saw all of this, again and again; the loss of his hand; the destruction of the tissue and muscle; the glaring white of exposed bone. The non-stop movie reel within his mind rolled on mercilessly. His mouth worked and his tongue, thick and thirsty, flopped uselessly in his mouth. His eyes rolled. He pinched his lids shut, but the image continued in its grim consistency, replaying again and again.

"Mnoh," he cried softly and jumped as intruding hands, cold, so terribly cold, touched his cheek, flitting to his shoulder. He flinched and trembled at the contact. Why was it so cold? He frowned, doing his best to think, knowing the answer was just before him, if he could only focus, he would understand what was happening.

Like lightning striking, unexpected and unprepared for, a bolt of pain shot through him. Up from his left hand through his contracting bicep and into his shoulder and chest. Gritting his teeth, he seized and curled upwards from where he lay. His right hand swung around and he gripped his shoulder, pressing his injured arm close to his side. A low groan bubbled up from the back of his throat, dissolving to a whimper through his trembling lips. The pain, like the mouth of a savage beast clamping down on his limb, sharpened. He threw his head from side to side. His insides coiled and his legs turned to rubber and quivered. He panted through his clamped jaw, foam formed in the corners of his mouth.

"Donnie," a gentle voice came to him through the haze of pain. The feminine notes rang like the bell of a sanctuary. Distant but at the same time close, so close; the sound of it like an echo through the wrong end of a telescoping tunnel. He needed to focus on that sound. He flailed in his mind to take hold of it. But the pain was too distracting. The pain would not let him reach out without snapping him back to the center of it. Broken bits of sentences hit him as he surfaced from the anguish like a drowning man gasping for rescue.

"Let me . . . I need . . . can we . . . no . . . I've got the needle . . ."

He cracked his eyes opened, but it did him little good, for they were blurred with tears and rolling in panic; unconsciously seeking the source of the sweet voice that would rescue him from this anguish. April. April's voice.

 _She shouldn't be here_ , he thought clearly with a sudden flash of horror.  _I don't want her to see me . . . not like this!_

And for a moment her face surfaced through the disjointed world of color and chaos; emerging like an angelic messenger, there to deliver him from all his fear, from all his pain. Through it all, he found her eyes and locked onto the blue.

"Hang on, Donnie," she said and someone took hold of his right arm and pried his fingers from around his shoulder. The movement sent new waves of crippling cramps through him. He braced the back of his head against the cot and could not stop his body as it bucked and thrashed. Something like ice was rubbed against the inner side of his elbow.

 _"St-oh-p!"_  he managed between the groans and grunts of pain, but it came out shattered and reedy and hardly an actual word at all.

He was pinned back by a heavy form and his legs kicked uselessly as he started to wail. The pressure on his injured arm was unbearable. Why were they hurting him like this? The logical part of his brain that while all this time he was lost in distress seemed to look on from a great distance; it clucked its tongue in sympathy and went back to whatever had it more occupied at the moment. Reason and logic gave him no sense of comfort or salvation. Donatello was left to the animal frenzy of wallowing in pain he couldn't understand and helpless to make it stop.

A sharp prick rose from the chaos of torment he was feeling and he felt his right arm fill with a burning sort of frigid solvent. Against the rising temperature of his body, the shock of the iv fluid had his skull slamming back into the sweat-soaked pillow beneath his head. Rough hands brushed his face and he felt his jaw being squeezed. He fought weakly, but succumbed to having his mouth wrenched open. Something bitter melted instantly against his tongue and the taste was terrible and familiar; then water, again, too cold, flooded his mouth. He choked and sputtered, but finally managed to swallow, lapping at the drips and smacking his lips as the container was taken from him. Weakness spread throughout his body and he could only turn his face to one side now, all other movement too taxing to even consider. His panting calmed to shallow breaths, slowing to a more normal rate and the tensing muscles in his shoulders and legs grew lax though his heart still pounded uncomfortably against his rib cage.

With a languid effort, he blinked; eyes focusing on the closest thing to him: her face. It loomed there, almost floating, superimposed over the blurry backdrop of the lab. Her large eyes were filled with sorrow and fragile reassurance. His gaze drifted but then refocused sharply on her lips, glistening as they moved. He became aware that she was speaking but he could not make out the words. They were muffled and masked by the tinny ringing in his ears. He wished that he could hear what she was saying. She looked so worried. It was almost funny. Despite the weariness dragging on his body, he wanted nothing more than to surprise her with a leap up onto the cot, revealing that he was just fine, teasing her for her sad look. At the same time a tiny feeling of satisfaction at the thought that she was concerned over him wormed its way through the haze of fading pain and exhaustion. For all his brave and boisterous thoughts, however, he could do nothing but lay there, his breathing frail but steady now. He had nothing with which to impress her, as it always seemed to be the case.

The ridiculously timed thought of,  _April, you're so beautiful_ , flitting through his drugged mind. His lips moved to tell her not to worry about him; to explain that he didn't know what she was saying or maybe so lost in his stupor, he was confessing every hidden desire of his heart to her but could do nothing to cease his outpouring of secrets. He was too detached to worry, though; he was floating away from the scene and his senses were drifting to a place where all things, great or small, were inconsequential.

April leaned in close to Donatello, telling him of the IV that they'd given him, telling him of the medicine that would make him drowsy and sleep when suddenly she noticed his lips begin to move. She leaned in closer to hear him, for his words were mere exhales exiting his lips, but still, she wanted to know what it was he was trying to tell her. She would do anything to make him more comfortable and wanted desperately to be of some use to her friend. She inclined her head and listened. Her eyes widened as the breathy, broken, whispered words slipped from Donnie's lips,  _"Beautiful, so beautiful . . . April . . . April."_

He flinched feebly under her fingertips delicately pressed against his bottom lip. While part of her did not want Donatello to be uttering such things while under the obvious strain and stress he was suffering from, not to mention the strange, homemade pills that Master Splinter had left in the lab with him, another part wanted the moment to remain unspoken, private; until he could, with clarity in intent and purpose, confess his feelings outright, should he wish, despite knowing them already. Her fingertips lingered and with a gentle caress, she moved her hand.

"Shh, don't talk, Donnie. You just need to rest right now. You need to rest," she repeated as his eyes drifted closed and remained as his chest rose and fell at a much more calm rhythm.

She felt they both deserved that moment to be perfect. When there was nothing hindering them. No fear. No time constraints. No drugs or IVs or harsh lights from the lab or a brother loitering in helpless fright only an arm's reach away.

She turned to look at Raphael standing on the other side of his brother's cot, staring at Donatello's turned face with an ashen expression. She noticed then, that he was out of breath.

"Raph," she said quietly and his face snapped up at the sound of her voice as though she startled him. She ran her tongue over her lip, "I've got him now. The medicine and the fluids from the IV should really help. Why don't you go to bed now, you've been up all night."

"No," he shook his head with the word. "I need ta stay here in case . . . What if he wakes up again?"

"Then I will get Master Splinter or Leo," she explained to him in a patient voice.

For a moment it seemed that he was hurt that she did not include him in the list of people she'd alert if Donatello awoke and needed help.

"You did a really good job just now. I know it . . . was kind of . . ." she decided not to bring up how frightening it was to hear the strangled sound erupt from the cot. To realize that he was seizing from severe dehydration, just as she had read earlier in the evening online. The events of the trauma along with the shock and then the fever all added up to him getting delirious.

Her aunt's experiences as an ER nurse gave April limited understanding of some emergency and basic medical treatments. She never thought she'd need to remember some of the stories her aunt was always telling her and her dad. She wished to god that she'd paid more attention. Thankfully, she was able to search the Mayo Clinic's website for pertinent information. And having worked as a candy-striper in the hospital where her aunt worked one summer, she'd seen her fill of needle injections and IV applications. The thought of putting in the IV had been her idea, but she had no idea if the Hamato family had anything like that. Raph knew where Don kept some of the supplies but had no idea what she meant about an 'IV'. It was Mikey who hung out with Donatello all the time and he was getting ready to run and fetch his little brother when what she was saying clicked in place in his mind. After she explained what the IV bag looked like, he raced to the other side of the room, and opened a cabinet door to reveal several lined up.

He'd been sitting in the folding chair across the room, arms crossed over his chest and staring into space with a resolute expression, as though by glaring into space, he could somehow be of use, he could somehow make all of this evaporate. He'd refused to sit in the much more comfortable computer chair when she offered earlier in the evening. After Leonardo had draped a blanket over their father and sent Mikey to bed. Not long after he was nodding off and April insisted that he get some rest. Leo only agreed after she promised to wake him after an hour, no more. That had been three hours ago. Raphael, alone, remained wide awake. If it wasn't for the dark circles slowly forming under his eyes she would have thought he wasn't the least bit tired. Now, however, looking at him, she could see the stress and exhaustion clearly in the shadows of his face. She felt as drained as he looked.

She took in a ragged breath, "I'm glad that you were awake with me." She sat back, keeping one hand partially on Donatello's arm, unwilling to separate herself from him completely. Thinking in the back of her mind that they needed to get him an anti-inflammatory for that fever or at least a cool rag to bring it down a bit. She knew the fluids from the IV would help, as well.

"I couldn't have gotten that needle into him without you holding him down." He grimaced and she quickly changed topic, "I think that Splinter will be relieved that we let him sleep. He looked so drained, didn't he?" Raph said nothing. "And now, you should go to bed."

He fidgeted, looking unsure.

"I promise I'll let you know if anything happens, okay?"

Raph nodded but it was as though he only did so to placate her and wasn't actually listening. He was staring now at Donatello's cheek. A smudge of a bruise was forming. Raph's breath caught. "I didn't mean to grab his face so hard," he said, voice breaking on the last word.

"It's okay."

"No, it ain't. I think, oh, I hurt him. Look, I can see a bruise!" He pointed and stepped back. His face suddenly crushed into a deep frown. "I can't do anything right. First with Master Splinter and now . . ." He was getting more upset, chest heaving as he huffed and puffed between words. He raised his hands and dropped them. His voice was a hoarse whisper but it grew more and more frantic.

"I shouldn't have started to fight with Leo out there. If I wasn't being so stubborn and so  _stupid_ , then he and Mikey wouldn't have gone in there by themselves. If I had just listened to Leo, Don wouldn't've had to push Mikey outta the way." He fell silent and dropped his head, hands in fists at his sides.

April stood up and though she was wobbling on her feet with weariness, she crossed around the foot of Donatello's cot and placed her hand on Raphael's arm. He shuffled his feet to step away from her, but she caught him by the elbow. When he looked up, his eyes were bright and brimming with tears.

"I'm supposed to protect these guys, April. Me and Leo. We're the," he struggled and then managed, ". . . the A team," he choked out.

Knowing that a hug would only make him uncomfortable, April reached down and took his large hand into her own. She squeezed his fingers as, with his other hand, he pinched his eyes tightly shut, rubbing them aggressively. As if punishing his eyes for being so weak as to form tears.

"It was an accident, Raph," she said after a while. He looked away, but held fast to her fingers. "And from what I heard, you saved his life."

"Ah," he groaned and shook his head, looking at the opposite wall from her.

His body language told her he didn't want to be lauded as a hero just now. She took a deep breath as she eyed the boy that she'd grown to respect and admire beyond anything she ever felt for anyone else aside from maybe, her father, laying before her, injured but not defeated. Not by a long shot.

"If you hadn't gotten to him in time . . ." she couldn't finish.

She could tell he didn't want to talk about that in the hitch of his shoulders in the rigid way he froze. She blew out a shaky breath. Donatello was home. Raphael had saved his life whether he wanted to hear about it or not. She gave herself a mental shake. Dwelling on all the gruesome could have been's would get them nowhere. They had to push forward. There was a long road ahead of them and she just didn't know how they were going to make it to the other side. She felt shaky and weak but pooled what remained of her stubborn determination to be of some use. Even if it just meant saying encouraging words. If that's all she could do, she would do it until her voice ran out and she could only pantomime support to this boy and his family that was everything to her.

She squeezed his fingers. "He's gonna need you, Raph. When he gets through this part. When he has to learn . . . to adjust to what comes next." Her eyes flitted to the deep crimson stains that marred the thick bandages wrapped around his left hand. Or what was left of it. She shut her eyes quickly.

Raph released her hand and he turned to look at her with an intense gaze. He started talking all at once in an earnest way that she'd never really heard from him before. "April will you stay? Here, I mean. With him. You say he'll need me and yeah, I know that's right. I'm his brother and all and yeah, he'll need Mikey and Leo and Sensei . . . but . . . you. I mean, you know how he feels . . ."

Raph caught himself, shooting a flighty glance at his brother and shuffling his feet. He cleared his throat. "Uh, um. It's just, we could use all the help we could get. And I know it would mean a lot to him, uh, and us. If you were around more. For his, and uh, our moral."

April understood exactly what Raphael nearly blurted. Donatello's crush on her was the worst kept secret probably in the history of secrets. But she was willing to play along to spare his dignity. Willing to keep her own secrets until the time was right. Knowing that hers was one that she would hold on to only until the moment was right. Because she didn't want him to go another day, another hour, another minute with that crushing doubt and uncertainty living in his heart.

She'd had an inkling, over time, of a connection with him that started to swerve from the path of purely platonic feelings of affection and respect into something richer, deeper; something that created contradictions that she couldn't reconcile within her heart and mind. The process was not a stroke of lightning, but more glacial and more so,  _impactful_.

It had started with small changes in the dynamic between them, and if she had to place a pin point in the time it had started, she would guess about the time she'd met Casey. When the boy talked to her of mistakes and forgiveness. When her anger turned to something less rigid and she'd made up her mind to give her friends a second chance. To give Donatello another chance.

The evolution of her feelings was not like any Hollywood concocted love story. No. Far from it. He made her furious more and more often over the strangest things. They argued more often and more heatedly than before. But there were also the soaring highs caused by this shift in her heart. It was beginning to be a small thrill to get him to be impressed with some fact or discovery she brought to the lair. She worked harder and harder to gain his approval, ever so slight that it might be, over grades on a project or her training with Master Splinter.

His attempts at flirtations, awkward and sweet though they were at turns, only served to infuriate her and had her pushing him away more than ever before. It was when he was fully engaged and distracted by a project that had her irked and doing everything in her power to catch his eye or engage him in some inane conversation. She'd continue to pester him until he'd lose his patience and snap at her. They'd end up fighting and she'd storm out of the lab as he stood looking baffled and full of remorse on the threshold, while she'd march out of the lair with no small satisfaction of having gained at least some of his attention for a bit; and at the same time she'd be completely bewildered at the fact that she would feel such a thing; especially when he was working on a retro-mutagen for her father! He'd apologize profusely later and she would pretend that she didn't know what he was talking about. Really, half the time, she didn't know what was happening with her. It was all a confused mess of tangled emotional ups and downs that she was wholly unprepared for.

It was the middle of the night only a few months ago, soon after he cured her father, that she awoke, heart hammering and breathless, gripping her sheets with clammy fists, with the knowledge like a fire raging in her heart; burning away the doubt and the veil that had shielded her mind so foolishly from what her heart had long ago recognized. She understood then. With all her heart and mind, she knew. She'd fallen for him. Fallen hard.

She'd been working on figuring out how to address this consciousness of her feelings; how to bring it all out; filled with fear that now that she was aware of her own heart's desire, the whole world seemed to be made of some fragile material; that one wrong move or one misspoken word could be enough to bring everything dear to her crashing to the ground; shattering it, forever. There was no easy way to manage what was before her. There was no one she could talk to. And yet, she'd been determined to work it out. Their relationship, oh how giddy she would get when she thought of that term as applied to her and Donatello, would not progress if she remained stalled in doubt and worry and never revealed to him her feelings. But just as she had fully made up her mind that he needed to know, as soon as possible, as soon as her courage and fate dictated the right moment, the moment she'd been awaiting to pounce upon, tragedy struck.

A lump was in her throat as she blinked from Donatello's wrapped hand and Raphael's earnest expression as he awaited her reply. She knew that there was nothing to be done for his hand. Splinter had all but announced to them earlier that it was going to need to be amputated. She felt her knees get weak, but steadied herself. No. It was too late to save his hand, but not too late to shelter his heart. It wasn't ideal, but she was done waiting. As soon as he was feeling better, she was going to tell him. She was going to tell him everything.

With a nod of her head she answered Raphael. "I need to make sure my dad is set, Raph. He's still jittery and a little, uh,  _off_  since he's been human again," she started and Raph deflated before her eyes. Her father needed her, but she was sure that he could manage a few days alone at a time. It wasn't anything permanent. It wouldn't be easy running between their apartment, school and the lair, but what were friends for? Besides, she knew they needed her to gather supplies.

"But yeah, I think. Yes. I should be able to come down and stay for a while before I need to go back home again. Tomorrow, I'll go home and see Dad and then I promise I'll come back here, okay? I can bring a bunch of medicine and medical supplies back with me. My aunt hordes the stuff from her job, so we have, like, an entire medicine closet filled with stuff you guys could use."

She didn't know when it happened, but Raph had somehow taken both of her hands in his. He listened with a grim, but hopeful expression. And when she gave him her final answer he broke out into a most rare and fantastic sight: he smiled. Wide and genuine without irony or sarcasm. He smiled and April felt for the first time since she was woken in the middle of the night a full twenty-four hours ago something like happiness. It was tiny and fragile, but it was real and she held onto it with all her might.


	5. Responsibilities

* * *

He woke semi-lucid and shaking; too weak to even lift his head from the pillow, damp with sweat. The ceiling blurred as he blinked to clear his sight. He turned his head to find Master Splinter hovering just beyond his vision's reach. His lips parted, sticking and rolling free from the center out by degrees until his mouth opened enough to try and speak.

"Hh . . ." he breathed.

Splinter spun around. "My son." He approached and placed a hand on his forehead, testing the heat, gauging it by the internal parental thermometer that somehow becomes implanted in any that rear a child with love in their hearts. He removed his hand and sighed softly. "Still feverish," he said more to himself than Donatello.

Donatello's right hand reached up and with feeble strength tried to grasp at his father's sleeve. Distantly he noticed the IV tubing attached to his inner elbow, the soft beeping of a heart monitor. Splinter's hand covered his own, giving it a gentle squeeze. In that moment, he wanted to climb up into his father's arms and be held, as he was when he was small and free to seek the comfort of an embrace from his father without awkwardness. Even if he could move, at seventeen, Donatello would not have risked such a display. It was bad enough that his brothers thought of him as the weakest member of the team, the poorest fighter, the slowest – despite his long limbs which only made him gangly and slow, slower than even Raph, who was nothing but bulk. He didn't need to add the label of 'baby' to that list.

"Donatello," Splinter began. "You are very ill. You have been unconscious . . . It has been three days."

Donatello considered that. The words his father said should have upset him. And he did feel upset, for a second. But it slipped away. There was a dull sensation of pain through the left side of his body cumulating in a pulsing ache at the place where his left arm was wrapped in an enormous bandage. His head was pounding. It was hard to focus. He remembered something only for it to slip away; eels sliding through his mental processes, devouring concrete thoughts and reasoning on their way out, electrifying him briefly with sharp bolts of crimping pain through his body.

He blinked and cocked his head a little, as much as he could with the position he was in. He wanted to understand what was happening, but also, there was something he needed to tell his father. It was important. He knew that. About his hand. His injury. Yes. He was hurt. He was . . . shot?

Water was brought to his mouth and he sipped at it but grimaced and turned his face away at the icy chill that filled his mouth. He ran his moistened tongue across the roof of his mouth, it tasted raw; rancid to match the brittle scent in the air surrounding him. An ozone from the machines hung like a malaise around his aching head.

Splinter set the cup to one side and turned to level a grave look into his eyes. Donatello knew that look. Even in this state, it served to cut through the haze of his groping mind. His heart stuttered. His throbbing body, so full of cramps and aches and lances of pain, held perfectly still. Chin tucked slightly, he frowned to better his focus, scrunching up his snout in the process as he did whenever researching some fleeting information, some aloof answer to a particularly difficult engineering challenge.

Splinter's voice was slow and soft. Annunciating every syllable so that he would not misunderstand. "I have tried to mend your injury. I did everything I could. But . . . you have an infection. Do you understand? My son, your hand." His amber eyes flicked to the other side of Donnie's body then returned. Donatello did not move.

"We will need to remove it."

Donatello's eyes rolled for a moment then snapped back to look at his father, widening slightly. He wanted to deny it. Wanted to fight. To argue. But in the furthest reaches of his intellectual and logical mind, he knew this was reality. Knew it the moment he watched the flesh burn and peel from his bones. Slowly, he blinked and gave a nod of understanding.

"Leonardo is preparing himself for what needs to be done."

Donatello started to tremble. "Sensei," he croaked. Fingers tightening weakly against his father's arm.

The warm hand upon his squeezed tighter. Master Splinter's eyes became glossy as he blinked rapidly. His voice remained slow and soothing. Almost calming. "I would not place this burden on him . . . or you. But the computer, the information I have read,"  _and tried to understand_ , he thought bitterly, but went on, "insists that there is only one course of action to ensure your survival. If there was any other way . . ." He trailed off with a shake of his head.

The fear came in waves of hot and cold. The strange thing was that he shook with the heat and lay numb with the cold. His thoughts were scattered and yet his emotions were vivid; sharp; alternating waves of terror and distress, horror and despair. He didn't want to lose his hand. How would he work? How would he fight? He would become useless. A burden. Cripple.

 _I'll be a crippled freak_ , he thought as a tear, thin and salty from his dehydration, crawled down the side of his cheek not voluminous enough to make it to his jaw, merely stalling as a streak.

Splinter's voice came through to him and he started, realizing that he'd slipped away in that moment of panic. "- strong, my son. We will proceed momentarily."

"Wha . . .? So s-soon?" he asked breathlessly, unable to hide his fear.

"It cannot wait. We have lost precious time in making this decision. I will not risk your life any more than I have already."

With that, Master Splinter eased his hand from his sleeve; fingers still claw-like in their positioning. He set his hand down, gave it a gentle pat and turned to the living room. Leaving Donatello to drift along in his stew of fever and fright, helplessness and dread. If there was one thing he could be grateful for, and Donatello was ever the turtle to look at the reasonable, bright side of things, in any situation, because most scientists understood there was something to gain from even the most failed experiments, if only experience, was that April would not see him like this. In his most desperate low point. He resolved himself to face this bravely, to put a positive spin on it and try to see it all as a learning experience.

He surprised himself when he heard a coarse, bleak chuckle erupt from his throat, but not by much.

* * *

Inside the dojo, Leonardo knelt, a katana across the thin towel draped over his lap. The sharpening stone slicked back and forth in a series of patterned sound following his movements.

_Snnk Snt Snnnk Snt_

It was a noise that used to bring him a sense of meditative peace. But now, it gave him only the cold sensation of stone on metal. Unreasoning. Uncaring. It reminded him of a movie he'd seen once about the French Revolution. It was a particularly bloody documentary on the public television station. The image of the guillotine coming down. The sound it made as it descended, as it cut through . . .

"Leo?"

Raph's voice made him jump. He composed himself and twisted to see his brother standing in the doorway of the training room. He said nothing as he stood, holding the sword limply in one weak hand, unable to do more than allow the weight to hang at the center of partially curled fingers.

"Are you really going to do this?"

"Yes, Raph," his voice came out thin, lacking resolve. Not good. He recalled some of his more basic early training from Master Splinter. When it was only wooden practice swords hitting harmlessly against padded targets. Every time he hesitated, even when he didn't realize he was, Splinter would catch him at it, correcting him immediately and with firm discipline driving home the point. He was their leader. He would be the one to protect the others always and with deadly force whenever necessary. He could not hesitate for any reason when wielding his weapon. He had to have resolve to cut sure. To cut cleanly. To force his will along the length of his arm and wrist, down into the metal, following through flesh and bone. He had done it before. Through robots and enemies faceless and masked. But he never dreamt he would have to turn his blade against his brother's flesh. A shiver of doubt raced through him and with preternatural skill, Raphael seemed to pick up on it.

He crossed the room, hands in fists at his sides and got close to Leo, who remained rooted to the spot. Raph's green eyes bounced back and forth between his own. Red lines of fatigue laced the whites. Dark circles smudged the creases beneath.

"Don't fuck this up, Leo."

Leo blinked at him and said nothing. Maybe it was the fact that Leonardo did not respond to the language or aggressive behavior that surprised him, but Raph hedged back a step. He narrowed his eyes as they roamed his brother's face. Measuring him.

"Give me the sword. I'll do it." He reached for the handle and Leo lurched back.

"No. Master Splinter told me I had to."

"Right. That's the problem. Splinter is making you do it. You don't want to do this."

Leo's mouth dropped open. He snapped it shut. "Of course I  _don't_ ," Leo replied, voice starting to rise. "You think I want to go chop Donnie's hand off?"

"You heard what Splinter said. On the computer. The fever Donnie's got means he's infected and that hand is nothing but poison to him."

"I understand that. Still doesn't mean I want to."

Raph snatched the sword from him. "Which is why I got this."

"Raph!"

Leo lunged forward and Raph stopped him with a hand on his chest, shoving him back. Leo shot back and they grappled. Raph held the sword up and back as far from Leonardo's reach as he could while knocking back his brother's hands. He swung his elbow and cracked Leo in the jaw. He cringed back and shook off the pain. One hand braced on his jaw, he flashed glassy eyes at Raph. This was the last thing he needed on top of everything else he was trying to deal with. Raph having a typical tantrum over something stupid.

"I knew you'd choke!" Raph barked, an expression of a mix of triumph and disgust on his face. "I knew it! As soon as Splinter told us this morning what needed to happen. I could see it in your face."

"Give it back."

"No way. I care too much about Donnie to let you mangle him because you don't have the guts to do what's necessary." He paused, shoulders slumping. "Some leader. Real good at bossing us around but when you actually have to do something hard . . ."

Seething, Leo growled, "Give me my sword back right now."

"Try it, Fearless."

Out of patience, stressed and furious, Leo leapt at Raph who spun and threw out his leg, connecting with Leonardo's stomach before he could twist out of range. The air gushed from him as his shell hit the mats and he rolled head over heels to land on his plastron. Mikey's voice, hoarse with the unaccustomed sound of fury, had him lifting his head.

"What the heck are you guys doing!?" he hissed, one hand over the T-phone's bottom. He glared from Raph to Leo who was now climbing to stand. "Raph, Master Splinter wants you to get the stuff from the cabinet." He threw a pair of keys tied to a piece of braided twine to Raph.

He caught it in one hand and stared dumbly at his hand for a moment, not recognizing the necklace for a moment. He cleared his throat and looked flushed. He gave a cough and asked, "Where does this, uh, cabinet?"

Mikey narrowed his eyes at Raph. "You know which one."

Leo blinked from Mikey to Raph, catching the accusatory tone in his voice but having no idea what was going on between his two younger brothers. He crossed to Raph and snatched his sword back.

"If you know what he's talking about go do it," Leo snapped.

Raph rolled his eyes and dashed from the room. Leo approached Mikey who was talking on the phone.

His tone softened and took on a near whining quality. "I know, we thought it would be a few days, April. But we really need you here. Like four hours ago." He stared at Leo, listening to April explain that she'd be there as soon as she could, nodded and gave a weak smile. "Awesome, April. That's great," he croaked. "Hurry, though, okay? Really, uh, be safe, but hurry, please. Bye."

"What was that all about with Raph?"

Mikey tucked the phone in his belt. He looked lost for an instant then his face darkened. "Oh, yeah right. Like he thinks no one knows about him picking the lock on the liquor cabinet in Sensei's room."

"He what?!"

Mikey's eyes widened. "Bro, even Splinter knew."

Leo ground his teeth together. This was news to him. His fingers tightened around the hilt of his sword. But Mikey's hand on his shoulder had him relaxing.

"Stay calm, Leo. Don needs you to have a steady hand, okay?"

Leo blew out a breath and leveled a lopsided grin at his youngest brother, "Since when did you get so mature?"

Mikey dropped his hand away, instead of beaming with pride at the praise in the way he normally did if he gave Mikey a compliment, he looked instead . . . angry. Leo tilted his head to one side.

"You okay?" he asked softly.

Mikey looked up, pressing his bottom lip up, then shaking his head roughly, he said, "No, bro. Not even a little." He turned quickly and left Leo standing there until the sharp sound of his father calling him snapped him out of his daze.

* * *

April hung up the phone and turned, chewing on her bottom lip as she braced her weight against the corner of the hallway and kitchen. She hugged herself tightly and rubbed her arms slowly. They were amputating Donnie's arm. Now. They thought they had more time, but apparently, he'd gotten worse. Now. Not now. Why now? Why, Donnie?

Her heart was thumping in a strange pattern. It seemed to jump and beat then stop only to jump again, making it hard to breathe. She promised she'd be down there and instead, the past three days she'd been here. Her eyes roved up to the ceiling by inches. In the far corner, atop the refrigerator, he crouched, wild eyed and muttering with his face buried inside a box of cereal. The other boxes lay torn and discarded all over the counter and floor; scattered 'o' shaped dried cereal peppered the linoleum. They crunched in tiny protests beneath her slippers.

"Dad," she said, surprised she could talk through the lump in her throat. Using the tip of her tongue, she moistened the middle of her lips and tried again. Louder, "Dad."

He stopped rummaging and cocked his head to one side then the other, listening, but not looking at her.

Tears were burning her eyes. "I have to go," she murmured. He growled. Low but clear enough. "I'll be back as soon as I can, okay?" He set the box down but did not move to come down. She raised her hands up and motioned with her fingers. "You wanna come down, now? Do you want some tea before I go?" she asked, the tears brimming now, threatening to spill.

He sniffed and knocked the box over the edge. It hit her in the head and fell onto the floor. She didn't drop her arms. Then, with slow, slinky movements, he dropped one leg over the side, then the other.

"That's right. C'mon down, now. I bet you're tired, huh?"

He braced his hands on either side of his hips and leaped down, making her jump back to avoid being smashed by his body. He straightened up and brushed the crumbs from his chin.

"You're going out?" he asked and his voice was so clear and so normal and so what he'd used to sound like that she could no longer hold back the tears. They erupted and spilled over her cheeks as she nodded her reply. He reached out and with the tip of his finger, he caught one tear. He brought his finger up to his nose, sniffed it, then his tongue darted out and he lapped the tear from his fingertip.

April clamped her hands to her mouth and continued nodding, pushing with all her might against the cry that was rising up in her throat, building and billowing, like thunderheads on a summer afternoon. Her heart skipped and her chest coiled and she choked. Hysteria would do nothing for any of them. She had to stay in control. She had to remember what Splinter had taught her . . . what was it? Something about patience and thinking and something about breathing and centering with the moon phases or the flow of traffic. Her frantic mind scattered.

With a large sigh, Kirby stuck his hands in his pockets. He rocked on his toes, one sock clad foot, the other bare. "Well, just be safe. You going to see that turtle boy, eh?" He cocked his brow at her and she hiccupped into her palm; blind with tears. "I don't know about that." He reached back and scratched liberally at the back of his neck and head, ruffling the little hair he had into a wad of tangles. He brightened and turned to her. "Oh! And . . . uh, why don't you bring home some of those bags I like. You know from Murakami's place."

The words were more a bubbling burst of breath, "You want take out, Dad?"

"Get the good stuff. From deep down."

April shook her head, uncomprehending her father's request. Trying to hold onto the family that was standing right there in front of her, but as lost as he ever was. Her father, her poor, sweet, harmless father. Oh, he'd been so intelligent, so funny in his odd ways, so geeky with her, watching old Doctor Who episodes and British comedies so dry, they'd improvise in between dialogue until they were choking on their popcorn. Where had he gone? Where had that man disappeared to when his body, once more whole and uncompromised stood before her, like a hallucination. A reflection. A mirage.

His eyes gleamed with a surreal hunger that was alien and frightening. "Yes. Deep down. The bags at the very bottom. With all the maggots."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I think living as a bat-creature for several weeks would make anyone a bit unstable. Don't you?


	6. Improvising

* * *

Donatello wrinkled his nose as the cool rim of the glass bottle skimmed his bottom lip once more. He turned away, squinting his eyes closed, grimacing as Splinter firmly coaxed him to drink, to swallow the fiery liquid that seared its way down his parched throat to puddle like some molten poison in his stomach.

"Please, my son, drink this. It will help with the pain. Do not waste energy fighting this."

He only struggled more.

"N-No. I don't . . . want that. Why . . . Please," he whimpered as he strained, feeling Raphael's hands gripping at his shoulders, ignoring his brother's pleas to do as their father asked.

More of the chilled clear liquid dribbled into his mouth, some ran over his chin down the concave curve of his throat to accumulate in the hollow of his clavicle mingling in the sweat pooled there. He coughed and sputtered. His aching body bucked.

"Calm down and just drink it already!" Raph shouted, feeling the fear begin to tear away at his control.

The delirium of his fever, the panic and fright commanded his senses and it was all he could do not to break down into incoherent wailing, but he was swiftly losing his grip. The part of Donatello's mind that remained strangely lucid and relatively calm, yet secured away, tucked neatly in the corner of his consciousness, distant from the absurd scene happening to his body, vibrated with some agitation. There was no methodology working here that made any sort of sense at all. Had they all lost their senses?

He needed to articulate that the vodka used for making tinctures and preserving herbs for his father's natural remedies would only dilute his blood, making the procedure of removing his limb that much more dangerous, not only that, but his risk for further infection would increase. He needed to explain that alcohol as an anesthetic was about the worst choice they could be making. He needed to stay calm and talk them through what they were about to do.

"Donatello, please," his father urged.

He choked and gagged as the rim of the bottle returned to his lips and vodka poured into his mouth, searing the back of his throat. His head spun. His empty stomach lurched. Lucidity was rapidly being overtaken by a buffering haze, clouding his meager ability to think under the circumstances. It was no use. He wouldn't be able to talk with any rationality at this point. Tears stung his watering eyes.

He needed an advocate. The little brother who so often dallied about the lab while he worked, listening with interest every time Donatello had to patch a broken bone, or stitch a wound, or research a procedure with regard to medical information. Where was Mikey when he needed him most? Why wasn't his brother stopping this madness? His eyes rolled, searching for his brother. Leo appeared over Raphael's shoulder. The gleam of the blade winked at him. He shuddered and groaned.

"Mikey," he moaned as Splinter took the opportunity of his open mouth to again fill him with the fiery liquid. He grimaced but found it harder to fight, harder to resist.

"That's it, Donatello. This will make everything easier for you. My son."

Splinter tipped the bottle up and drained the last of the vodka into his son's surrendering mouth, watching him swallow it down. He fell back, reaching for something to steady himself against as Raphael and Leonardo did their best to reassure and calm their frantic brother. He had not expected his son to resist this way. Did he not trust that his father acted only out of concern? That he'd never do anything to harm him. That in fact, he was doing everything he could to save his life?

With a shaking hand, he set the bottle to one side as his back hit the counter behind him. Plastic bottles jumped and rattled. A few that were open spilled their sinister looking pills, gathered and collected and stored with precise care, now scattering like tiny pebbles over the black surface, unbound and free. Four of them bounced into the metal sink, clinking and pattering as they went leapfrogging and jumping. He followed their trajectory into the gaping opening at the center of the basin as they disappeared into it. One after another. Gone. Without a further sound or protest. Splinter shivered as a finger of foreboding traced a line of fear across his heart.

 _It means nothing,_ he told himself. But his superstitious heart beat faster and the tip of his tail trembled.

His eyes went back to the remaining containers. The homemade medicines that he'd concocted and administered to Donatello over the past few days no longer did anything. Either the age of the last of his long-stored compounds had made them less powerful, or his son had quickly become acclimated to the influence of the mild sedatives.

His hand, shaking slightly, knocked against several containers, scattering them as he reached to pick the closest one up for inspection. He was not familiar with the names on the labels, scribbled in the tight, cramped handwriting of his child, adorned with warnings aimed at Michelangelo not to ingest. Not to even touch. There were no instructions for administering them or explanations as to what they did other than the list of chemical compounds with their percentages. He turned it around in his hand, hoping for more clues, knowing already that he'd gone through these bottles, each one, and nothing other than one anti-inflammatory did he recognize; squinting at the tiny skull and crossbones drawn in black marker; frowning as it stared back at him with empty eye sockets. He dropped it and lifted another, inspected it closely, only to do the same, again and again.

He'd given Donatello two from these containers, he remembered clearly, separating them from the others for future reference. When he'd first came into the room while his son seemed clear-headed; he'd asked him and Donatello nodded. Only, after seeing no immediate effect, Splinter began to worry about his son's apparent coherence. He'd given Donatello another pill from one of the other bottles, though which one, now, he wasn't sure, and soon became afraid to administer anything else besides the alcohol. It was risky, after giving him those pills, he knew this, but he was desperate to get his son to a state of unconsciousness when the amputation was to occur. He had no other choice.

He turned back to his sons who were awaiting instructions quietly with grim expressions. He approached the head of the cot. Leonardo took a step back and Raphael moved but kept his hands positioned on his brother's heaving chest. Donatello's head shook slowly from side to side as if in denial of what was happening; eyes pinched shut. His mouth worked but no words came forth, only his soft gasps and the occasional weak cough.

Splinter cradled Don's head between his palms and lowered his forehead until it met his child's. He began murmuring to him, hoping to lull his boy into a relaxed state. To give the alcohol a chance to do what was needed. Soothing phrases rolled from his tongue and soon the tightness around Donatello's eyes softened. After another moment, Splinter raised his eyes. They locked on Raphael and he needed no verbal instruction.

He nodded once and hopped gracefully up onto the table, straddling his brother, knees on either side of Donatello's hips, bracing the tops of his shins against Donatello's thighs, feet curled inside his inner thighs, just above his knees, pinning them down; his elbow across his brother's chest, one hand held his right shoulder, the other gripped Donatello's uninjured right arm. He knew what he needed to do, as Splinter had instructed earlier. They had to keep him as still as possible. Everyone had their position. Mikey was to hold his ankles down. Donatello had powerful legs and the bulk of Raphael's weight would be used to keep his upper body in place. Remembering suddenly that he'd not seen Mikey since the dojo earlier, he glanced over his shoulder and frowned. Mikey was not in the room.

_What the hell are you doing, Mikey? Where are you, you coward!_

Donatello groaned, diverting Raphael's attention from the empty doorway and his younger brother's absence. Master Splinter quickly returned to murmuring the soothing mantra. Leonardo met Raphael's eyes. They narrowed with warning. He swallowed. His fingers curled around the hilt of his katana. With heavy steps, he circled around his father, stepping carefully over his twitching tail as though it were a live electrical wire.

Splinter shifted and eased his hands so that they now cradled Donatello's left shoulder. From his robe's belt he produced a sheathed tanto and pulled free a thick short twine. His right hand went under and Don's arm was gently shifted away from his torso.

Donnie winced and groaned. His eyelids fluttered. Splinter adjusted his stance and as quickly as he could, wrapped the twine over and under his son's armpit several times, he attached the ends to the tanto and began twisting it around and around, creating a tourniquet. Donatello groaned again and then shuddered.

Raphael turned his face away and pinched his eyes closed. He remembered Splinter warning them that Donatello may not stay under. That he may wake up due to the pressure and pain from the tourniquet. He remembered the way his stomach rolled and dropped as his father's voice, so cold and unwavering, prepared them for the worst.

_He may cry out. He may scream. It is imperative that you do not move from your places._

Raphael clenched his jaw and held fast to his brother. His grip on his brother's arm tightened. He would not let Donatello down. No matter what he'd keep him still. The seconds crawled by as Splinter continued tightening the tourniquet and Raphael felt Donatello begin to squirm and writhe beneath his body. A moan erupted from the back of Don's throat and his head began to shake harder and harder, back and forth.

 _Hang on, Donnie_ , he thought.  _Stay out just a little longer._  Tendrils of sweat rolled down the sides of his face. He turned his head slightly to wipe his jaw against his shoulder. His eyes locked on Leonardo, looking pale, but determined, standing in place, in front of Donatello's bandaged left hand. Leo aimed the blade for just above the elbow where Splinter had instructed him but made no other move.

Teeth grinding, he glared at his eldest brother.  _Make it fast, bro. Make it clean. Don't choke, or so help me . . ._

As if reading his thoughts, or feeling the penetrating tension directed at him, Leo's eyes snapped up to meet Raphael's. Their gazes held, locked as silent communication flowed between them. Raph noted the tiny nod. He shifted his feet, planting them firmly apart, adjusting his grip on the hilt. Satisfied that Leo would not fail in this, Raphael turned his face away, unwilling to watch one brother dismember the other. He knew it had to be done, but it didn't mean he wanted to watch it happen. If he had to be in Leo's place, he would do whatever was necessary, but he wasn't. He had his job to do. It was up to Leo, now.

"Ohho," Don moaned in pain and his eyelids fluttered. His body, slick now with sweat, bucked beneath Raph.

"No," Raph groaned, holding fast, sliding a bit from the perspiration of both he and his brother's body. He pressed down with his legs as Donatello's long limbs began to jerk. "Hold still, bro! It's almost over."

Mikey rushed into the room just as Splinter twisted the tanto as far as it would go; the veins in Donatello's arm stood out thick and pulsing. April ran in right behind him. Mikey stopped abruptly and she slammed into his shell.

"What . . . wait! Did you give him . . . is he out?" He frowned. "H-Hold on! I told you guys to wait for me! I had trouble picking the lock to the restricted cabinet in Don's room," he pointed to something held between his elbow and body. Tucked under his arm was a plastic jug marked Chloroform, a small bundle of hand towels, in his hand was a long plastic tube, a syringe and a small first aid kit. "How did you get him unconscious?" he asked, troubled.

"Michelangelo! His feet!" Splinter snapped, ignoring what he was saying as Raphael lurched from Donatello's legs kicking.

"Ah . . . ahha!" Donatello's eyelids fluttered again as his eyes rolled. The spinning world grew blurry and the walls around him started fall inwards to crush him flat. Something was smothering him, making it hard to breathe. But worse than that . . . there was . . .  _pressure_! The pressure was too much! His left arm felt as though it were being slowly compressed beneath a steadily lowering concrete slab. As if the muscles were expanding and splitting even as they were being flattened. His breath hitched. He could hear the voices of his family, strained and full of panic, growing louder. It fueled his frenzy. He needed to make the pain stop, he needed to get up! Why couldn't he get up?!

"Dammit!" Raph growled, nearly being knocked off Donatello. His brother, though wounded and out of his mind from fever and the vodka, was still hammered muscle and steel sinew. Holding him down was proving harder than Raphael thought.

"Leonardo," Splinter said, his words unwavering and low.

Leonardo, deaf to all but his master's voice, eyes fixed on Donatello's arm, raised the blade.

"No! Wait, he's still awake! Listen to me! You can't do this!" Mikey's voice rose to a shriek. His hands fumbled across the tops of Donatello's shifting feet. "Guys! I told you t-to wait for me! This isn't right! I know what to -"

"Shut up, Mikey!" Raph screamed.

"Hold him still!" Splinter shouted to both his sons as Donnie started to thrash. "Do you not hear me?!"

Mikey let out a frustrated, desperate sound as he fell forward, dropping the precious medical materials he'd brought and did his best to grab hold of Donatello's kicking feet.

April ran her hands through her hair. When Mikey had called her and told her they were doing this, she had come as quickly as possible. On her way she imagined many scenes of how this would be, in none of them was this chaos, this tangible horror, this smothering panic. Splinter looked shaken, his fur disheveled. She had never seen him look so upset, so full of fear. Leonardo looked as though he were going to be sick, his body unnaturally still, arms in front of him, clutching the sword between his body and his brother's arm. Her eyes raced from Leo to behind him, to the counter, falling on the empty bottle of vodka, feeling her body go cold as understanding dawned. And yet, her mind scattered, perhaps refusing to believe what was actually happening in front of her. Refusing to believe that this strong clan, so confident and so sure could fail at something so detrimental. Could fail one of their own so terribly.

"Oh, oh my gosh. Donnie," she murmured.

Denial took hold of fear's clammy grip, circling her mind, filling her with uncertainty and dread. Why was Donatello awake? Where was the anesthetic? And stupidly, before she even realized and caught herself: Where's the doctor?  _Donnie needs help . . . someone call a doctor . . ._

At that moment, Donatello's hoarse, rising moan erupted into a stronger cry of pain. His body curled forward despite the weight of Raphael on top of him. He tried to reach for the tourniquet and Raphael swore as he struggled to keep his brother's right arm in place. Splinter tried to ease him back, but he would not relent. His eyes suddenly snapped open, locking on her. Through the drunken delirium and pain, recognition flared, panic ebbed only to return with greater force. What was she doing here?

 _No,_   _April_.  _Don't look at me like this. Not like this._

April's hands went to her mouth. His eyes reflected unfathomable misery; glassy, wide and filled with humiliation and animal hysteria; they cried out to her for help. Her heart shattered.

She strode forward towards him, hands reaching out, directly into the storm of emotions swirling around her in a raging tempest that nearly knocked her to the floor. Her feet stuttered to a halt as she was caught and then drifted helplessly within the rolling sea of frenzied emotions, while a part of her remained oddly removed from it all. Her senses were roiling with the vibrations and sensations filling the room: the brothers' individual anguish and terror, bright and sharp like needles running along the inside of her mouth and ears, making her fingertips tingle painfully; Splinter's desperate determination, his guilt like leather straps whipping across her lungs, stealing away her breath. Above all this, though, Donatello's confusion hung like a poisonous mist stinging her eyes and blurring her vision, filling her mouth with sand. His frustration as his logical mind, stripped away and bound, mute and blinded by the alcohol in his system, screamed for help like a siren vibrating across her skin, past it, entering the marrow of her soul.

She couldn't breathe. She couldn't move. The tableau held, suspended in amber, frozen in tar, drowning slowly in helplessness. Reality reasserted itself. Sounds collided with the thumping of her heartbeat, the racing of her pulse, the trembling of her limbs. She gasped; hand at her throat as she was assaulted by the scene before her.

Mikey begged and shouted for them to listen to him. Raphael snarled at Leo. Splinter frantically murmured to Donatello as he held fast to the tourniquet with one white-knuckled fist, his other hand attempting to steady his child's head. Leonardo closed his eyes. When he opened them there was no doubt, only resolve.

The blade came down.

His aim was true. Silence settled instantly, broken by a low thud as the severed limb hit the concrete.

Donatello sat petrified, staring into her eyes. A second, then another. His pupils shrank and then dilated as his eyes rolled up and back. His body slumped. His head rolled to one side. Raphael let out a dry agonized sob, a mix of relief and horror. He slid off his brother and collapsed crossed legged, to brace his head in both slick palms, elbows set upon his watery knees. Splinter pressed his face into the side of Donatello's neck, cradling his son's head with both arms, whispering his pleas of forgiveness in a stream of Japanese and English. Leonardo staggered backwards until his shell hit the counter, staring forward, seeing nothing but the deed replayed in his mind. Of metal biting through bandage and flesh, bone and veins, emerging from the other side, glistening and tarnished. He turned around, feeling sick, dropping the sword with a clatter and gripped the edges of the shelf, head low as his body quaked. Mikey dropped to the floor in a heap.

"Why didn't you wait for me," he moaned and hid his face in his arms, knees curled to his chest.

April blinked. Her fingers swam in the air at either side of her hips, reaching for something solid, to confirm it wasn't a nightmare she'd mysteriously fallen into and now inhabited, but reality. The invisible storm of emotions had passed leaving her hollow and shaken, surrounded by a bubble that had imploded and collapsed onto itself. She could feel nothing but her own heart thumping painfully, too fast. She found herself inching closer. One step. Then another. The copper scent mingled with something sweeter and it turned her stomach.

Still, she moved closer, wanting if only, to touch him, to reassure herself that he was still there, not whole any longer, but most importantly, alive. Needing to confirm by the flutter of a pulse beneath a fingertip, the warmth of his soft skin beneath her palm, the caress of breath across her hair. All the things she'd taken for granted when spending time with him; in her bedroom, late at night, studying for exams with him, nestled close as smugglers, sleeves pressed against planes of muscle; the outer side of her bare knee brace against the padding of his; whispering solutions to equations so as not to waken a father still recovering from a trauma the likes of which no human had ever sustained and lived through before.

"Donnie," her voice a breath slipping past parched lips. A question. A prayer.

The sole of her gym shoe slid. She looked down at the black puddle growing wider like a predator stalking silently across the floor. Her heart stopped. Her eyes darted up to his arm, to his armpit where the twine had come undone. The tourniquet did not hold.

He was bleeding out.


	7. Promises to Keep

"Mikey!" April shouted, wasting no time. There was none to lose. Donatello would die right under their noses if she didn't act. She lurched forward and scrambled to take hold of the loosened tourniquet and began twisting it with frantic, but sure motions. She reached out and fumbled. She lifted what was left of his arm and held it up, bracing it between her forearm and the side of her breast.

Michelangelo peered over the end of the table, over one shoulder at her, then down to the floor, to the puddle. He hopped up and pointed. "Oh god! Oh, oh god!"

"Get the antibiotics. Get them started in his IV. Right now. A-And get me one of those towels!"

"Y-Yeah. Okay, right. Here!" Mikey grabbed the sterile towels he'd taken from Donatello's spare kit and tossed them to her. She caught it under her chin and with her right hand balled it and pressed it onto the end of his arm. Her elbow held his arm in place. The bleeding had now eased between her tightening the tourniquet and elevating his arm, but the white material instantly spotted in pink, darkening to a bright red. She remained like this, pressing firmly but gently on the end while still holding the tourniquet in place with her left hand. She just needed to give his body a chance to adjust, for some of the severed veins and blood vessels to clot before releasing the taut cord.

Splinter raised his head as Leo spun. One hand still pressed against Donatello's cheek. "What is . . . April? No, my . . . my son. What is wrong with him?" Splinter's eyes went everywhere until he met her stony expression. He raced around the head of the table, coming up right behind her.

"Get Raph and Leo out of here," she said, voice shaking at the end of her sentence. She was angry with him. For not waiting for Michelangelo or her before proceeding. For not using the proper tools to bring Donatello to a safely unconscious state. For using alcohol – what was he thinking!? For causing him to lose so much blood unnecessarily. But she bit back her anger, focusing all her energy into making things right. Donatello's safe recovery and life depended on her keeping cool.

Mikey appeared behind her with another bag for the IV; with hands that trembled, he hooked it over the large nail jutting from the bricks and attached the tubing. Splinter shuffled aside, watching his youngest son with no small amount of surprised awe. Mikey gave him a sidelong glance. He was both happy and hurt at his father's wonder. If anyone would have listened to him, Donatello's amputation would have gone much better, he knew this. And it hurt. That none of them, but in particular, his father, trusted that he had anything other than silliness and clowning to offer.

"What's wrong with him?" Raph asked hoarsely as he climbed quickly to stand. His mottled face shot to Leonardo, standing helplessly to one side of April. His face a mask of blank confusion. "You! What did you do!?"

Leo started and blanched. His mouth worked but nothing came out.

"Master Splinter, Mikey and Donnie needs some room. I need you all out of here."

"You fucked this up, didn't you!" Raph circled the cot, eyes blazing and locked on his brother. "If Donnie dies . . .!"

"N-No," Leo finally managed, eyes widening.

Raph came up on him; shoved him back with a growl. Still numb from what he'd just done to Donatello, Leonardo did not react. He stumbled bonelessly. Weak legs nearly giving out. His shell hit the counter with a bang. Pill bottles scattered. The empty vodka bottle teetered and fell, exploding into broken glass.

Everyone started yelling at once. "Raphael!" Splinter shouted. Raph's voice rose over Splinter and April's complaints, "I knew you'd screw up! I  _knew_  it!" "Stop it!" Mikey hollered, bouncing in place, his hand resting protectively over Donnie's shoulder onto his chest. "Enough!" Splinter called out again.

Raphael approached Leo, ignoring the protests ringing all around him. This time Leo raised his fists, chest heaving, eyes wide with fury and fear. Raph paused, staring him down, panting through gritted teeth.

"I did exactly what Sensei told me to do!" he said, his voice higher than normal but relatively stable.

April, eyes flashing in barely suppressed rage, turned to face Mikey. With a jerk of her head, she indicated for him to come closer. He squeezed by Master Splinter, standing rigidly near April. She placed Donnie's arm into Mikey's hands, pressing it firmly but gently against his chest with a look that told him not to move it from the elevated position. His face was pale, his freckles stood out. He nodded. He held the towel in place and glanced down at his brother's unconscious face, looking as if asleep and slightly ill.

She murmured quickly, "Start to release this slowly, okay?" She took his free hand and placed it over the tourniquet.

April then spun around and ducking under Splinter's outstretched arm as he reached over the corner of the cot to his boys staring each other down, wound and ready to spring on one another, she popped up on the other side. She wedged herself between Leo and Raph just as Raphael had his fist knocked away by one of Leo's wrists. She grabbed at Raph's opposite fist with two hands. She tried to push Raph away but he was a wall of unyielding coiled muscle.

Raph moved side to side, trying to get around her. Scuffling. All the time shouting that Leo had hurt Donnie, for her to get out of the way. Leo, behind her, making desperate noises, partial explanations and denial that he'd done nothing but what Splinter had told him. And Splinter commanding for his son to back down. To leave the room. All of it going unheard.

April let go of Raph's fist. She brought her arm up and back. She swung; cracked Raphael across his cheek. The sound of her hand smacking his face ripped through the noise like a gunshot.

Wide-eyed, he fell back a step; with a dark pink mark blossoming across his cheek, he slowly tuned his face to April, mouth agape.

"Get." She exhaled, inhaled and swallowed. "Out."

Raphael, still holding his throbbing cheek with one palm, ducked his head. "I-I'm sorry," he huffed with glassy eyes. "I just . . . I," he glanced down at Donatello, shaking his head and growing more miserable than before. "'M sorry," he repeated and slid one foot back, then the other, before turning and fleeing from the room. Splinter stormed after him.

April twisted and looked at Leo. His chest heaved and his glassy eyes blinked rapidly. Head low, he skirted around her, sidestepping both her and the puddle at their feet.

"I-I . . . what happened?" he asked quickly and quietly. "Is he, is Donnie going to be okay?"

Her head bobbed, "Yeah, yes. I think so." She hugged herself. "We've got it under control, I think," she said glancing at Mikey who met her eyes and nodded. "Just . . . go see if Master Splinter needs anything."

"B-But . . ."

Her body shook, but she remained calm on the surface. Donatello was going to be fine. She would not allow anything else to go wrong. "Mikey and I know what to do. If you want to help Donatello, just . . . please go."

He shot a glance at Mikey, who's face was regaining some color. His mouth in a grim line, an expression so serious and out of place on his youngest brother's face, Leo nearly didn't recognize him.

"You heard the lady," Mikey croaked. "Trust me, bro. I really know what I'm doing."

With that, Leo gave Donatello a gentle press of his hand upon his brother's shoulder and swept from the room. April and Mikey sighed and locked gazes.

"What now?" she asked him.

"I'm going to release this thing now," he said, indicating the tourniquet. "I think the worst of the bleeding's pretty much done. But we'll need to keep this uh, elevated."

She glanced around for something to prop his arm up with and set to creating a lift to keep it raised, using the IV contraption that Donatello had already rigged and a spare towel to cradle his arm.

Mikey eased himself back, watching April in silence. He felt washed out and shaky, but focused, acting on the knowledge that he'd gathered over the years of hanging out with Donnie in the lab; watching him set bones and measure out vaccines and pain killers. Always listening, though Donatello seemed to think that Mikey would zone out when he'd talk, when the truth was, it was all so interesting to Mikey and the stuff he didn't get, he sort of soaked up and came to a general understanding through context clues.

"I think he's as stable as we can get him right now, Mikey," April said, patting the unconscious boy across one brow with her fingertip. "His head is cool. The fever's gone down."

"It probably broke with the antibiotics, maybe," he shrugged. "I dunno. I'm just guessing."

April moved towards him. She placed a hand on either of his shoulders. "You're doing great, Mikey."

He tipped his head from side to side. He sighed heavily and dropped onto a stool off to one side. "I just wished they'd have waited. We could've made this, uh, easier on Donnie."

She nodded, unable to argue, unable to give him any good reason as to why they didn't wait. She knew the reasons and none of them were good. So, she kept quiet.

"Do you think he'll need a, um, transfusion thing, 'cuz of all the blood he lost?"

April considered the question. She bit the corner of her bottom lip, feeling her body hanging with exhaustion and the draining away of adrenaline. She just wanted to lie down and sleep at this point.

"I think, because his pulse is good, his heartbeat is stable and strong," she said, looking encouragingly at Mikey who nodded along, "that he'll be okay without one." She stepped back and wiped her nose with the back of her hand. The stench of blood and sweat hung like a malaise over them. "We should tidy up."

"Yeah, this isn't exactly sanitary," he said, sliding off the stool.

He got to work with April cleaning the floor, picking up the glass, mopping the blood and wiping down the counters. April swept once more, afterwards, picking up any errant bits of glasses lingering in the crevices of the floor. All the while, the beeping of the monitors were a sort of comfort and dread. Every pause between sounds a cause for their hearts to skip, for breath to be held, only for the next moment of release and relief. The push-pull of tension created a crawling migraine that built from the back of her eyes and wrapped a vice-like grip around her temples to the back of her head. She slumped into the folding chair. Her head fell forward and she braced it in her palms. Mikey pulled the stool up and sat next to Donatello, taking his temperature and standing every now and then to recheck and double check the IV fluids, the connections and his brother's pulse.

"Mikey," April said in a low voice.

He turned and looked at her. He appeared as tired as she felt.

"Thank you, for everything."

He ducked his head and fidgeted, then placed his hand one Donatello's. He patted it and rubbed it gently. "I should be thanking you. They would've never listened to me and he might have . . ." He shook his head, eyes growing huge and watery. He coughed and looked away from her. "I'm just glad you were here, April," he added, voice thick with emotion.

Her phone trilled at that moment and she nearly fell off the chair in surprise. She dug into her pocket and fumbled until she answered.

"April!?"

"Casey?" April asked, frowning. Then, "What's the matter?"

"Yeah," his voice broke up then cleared through the static, "Your dad is kinda attacking me right now, ah!" His voice drifted into the background, "Mr. O'Neil, Oh! No! I don't think you should throw that, I think that's a family heirloom." There was a distant crash. Then Casey's voice, closer, "Ah, crap. I hope you didn't have an attachment to that bust of Freud."

April's mouth hung open.

"What are you doing at my apartment?" April asked as Mikey moved to stand in front of her, a look of concern on his face.

"Well, I thought I'd just . . . you know and then your dad opened the door and uh," another crash interrupted him and the sound of his breathing heavy and quick as if he was running or dodging something. "Maybe I could explain after you come home?" His voice rose and then, all in a rush, "Like Now? Okay? hurry up! I gotta go, bye."

April jumped up. Her head swooned, vision darkened as the pounding of her migraine crashed through her skull and somehow Mikey had her braced in his large hands.

"Whoa! You better sit back down."

"I can't," she said miserably and grabbed Mikey and pulled him into an embrace. He returned the hug immediately. Into the side of his neck she said, "I want to stay. Oh gosh, Mikey. I do. But I just  _can't_."

He nodded. "No, no way. Listen. April," he squeezed her tighter. "I've got this. It's okay, April. You need to go, then you gotta go. We understand."

She shifted and eased back, wiping her cheeks and huffing a laugh. "Everything's crazy," she said, voice cracking.

Mikey reached up and wiped an errant tear from her jaw. He glanced over his shoulder then back to April, throwing a nod in his brother's direction. "He'll understand."

She sucked in her lips and did her best to regain control. She straightened up. Bobbed her head once. Sniffled. She pointed her phone at Donatello. "Take care of him, Mikey. Okay? Don't let anything happen to him while I'm gone. Okay? Promise me, okay?"

Mikey was nodding as she spoke. "You know it, April. I swear," he added solemnly with a motion of crossing his heart for emphasis. "He'd want you to be with your dad. Take care of him, right? 'Cuz Donnie isn't going anywhere and he's got us to watch over him. And the worst is over, now. Thanks to you."

Her face crushed down and her voice was breathless and choked, "Yeah." She shuffled her feet but remained.

"Go," Mikey insisted. "Go be with your dad right now." He stepped back and cracked his knuckles and swept his hands together, dusting them off. His face split into an almost convincing grin. "Doctor Mikey with the incredible bedside manner is in! For duty and humanity,  _nyuk, nyuk_!" he cried in his best Curlie impersonation.

She laughed again, and it felt as good as it did painful; a bubbling gush of irrational giddiness and relief. They would get through this. All of them. Somehow. And maybe if they were really lucky, they'd remain whole, on the inside, where it mattered most.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Hope you enjoyed this chapter. A little bonding between April and Mikey, two very capable characters not always given the benefit.
> 
> 'For Duty and Humanity!' is a quote from one of my ALL TIME favorite 3 Stooges episode: Men in Black. It's hysterical and, imo, the Stooges at their INSANE best.
> 
> Also, StealthyStories is having a Halloween/Horror contest - the 1st Annual! So do check out the website and consider participating - the more people who do make it all the more fun - and this competition you can nominate 2 of your own works! But even if you're not a writer, you can participate and show your love for the authors you follow and adore! XD The Nerdfighter is running the show, but if you have ANY questions, feel free to PM me and I'll do my best to find out the answer for you!


	8. Secret Life of Casey Jones

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we see a Casey Jones that should be represented in the show, but sadly, isn’t - yeah, I said it. Still love the show, though, ain’t gonna miss it! Oh yes, and contrary to popular opinion, I happen to enjoy a well told love triangle. Very, very much. >:)

By the time April arrived at the apartment, pressing open the slightly ajar door with her heart in her throat, the chaos she anticipated finding was gone.  Replaced with a stillness that was just as nerve-wracking.  She stepped inside and crept past the shards of what remained of her father’s bust of Freud, spilled books, crinkled newspaper pages and pillows scattered about.  She froze for a second as voices came to her from the room beyond.  She hurried into the kitchen to find Casey at the table, hair mussed, a dark bruise marking the beginnings of a black eye, talking calmly with her dad who was, unbelievably, sitting with a bowl of steaming ramen in front of him.  Casey spotted her and gave a brief wave.

“So, uh, yeah, I should maybe, go now.”

“Don’t leave,” Mr. O’Neil said casually, his voice normal and even, “April just got here.” He twisted in his chair and gave her a warm smile.  “Hi, honey.  Look who dropped by.”

April’s heart stuttered.  “Dad?  Is everything . . . okay?”

Her eyes swept through the kitchen.  Not as bad as the living room.  Just a few items shifted and out of place, the cereal boxes were knocked over and the utensil caddy, but nothing broken.  Her wide eyes shot to Casey, searching his face for signs of distress and any other violence besides the black eye.  She mouthed, ‘You okay?’

He nodded and swept his hand through his thick hair.

“Of course, honey.  I was feeling a bit peckish and Casey fixed me some ramen.  You know how I get when I’m hungry,” he chuckled.

Casey and April exchanged glances.  “Great,” she said, voice wavering.  “I guess, I’ll go clean the –“

“Don’t bother, I’ll take care of that.” Kirby stood up and Casey jumped up from his seat.  He moved forward but her father twisted towards him.  Casey took two quick steps back, his face paling.  Kirby stooped and nabbed the end of the tablecloth.  He wiped his chin and mouth vigorously with it and then dropped it.  He chuckled as he looked from Casey’s wary expression to April.  “Don’t know what came over me.  I guess I thought,” he frowned and stared hard into the floor for a few seconds.  When his face rose once again it held a confused blank look.  “April?”

“Yeah, Dad?” She reached for him.

“I want to lie down for a while.  Is that okay?”

“Sure,” she nodded and pressed her hands against the front of her throat as he drifted by her, down the hallway and made a left into his room; shutting the bedroom door with a soft click.  April’s head shook from side to side and then as if just remembering he was still there, she looked up and dashed over to Casey.

“Oh, Casey. I’m so sorry about your eye.  D-Did he . . . Did my dad . . .?”  She didn’t know how to even ask.  How do you ask a boy that you’ve only just gotten to know if your father seriously injured him?  How do you make it up to him?

Casey considered her question and then his face broke out into an easy smile.  “Oh, oh!  This?” he gestured towards his eye.  “Nah, that wasn’t your dad, April. I got this before I came over.”

She blinked.  “B-But I thought he . . . you sounded like you were being . . .”

He waved off her concerned.  “I have to admit, having your dad invite me in and then suddenly go nuts on me was the last thing I was expecting when I came over, but . . . I managed to calm him down.”  He cocked his head and said confidently, “Jones’ charm.  Works like a wonder!”  But then at April’s continued distracted expression, twisted with concern, he sobered.  He squinted.  “I think he got confused.  He thought I was one of those Kraang bots and tried to defend himself.”

“I don’t know what to say,” she croaked and felt suddenly like she wanted to cry.  She twisted away as his face fell. 

“Hey, red.  Hey.  It’s okay.  No harm, no foul.”  He smiled but she didn’t return the look as she slowly turned back to face him.  She looked miserable and tired as she stared at him.  He added, “Your dad didn’t hurt me or anything.  Really.  You think I’d make him a bowl of noodles if he did?”

She laughed and sniffed, hard.  “No, I guess not.”  She rubbed her face.  She heard a cabinet door open and close and raised her eyes to see Casey rummaging around. 

“What are you . . .?”

“Where’d you keep the garbage bags?  Ah, nevermind, found them.” He stood up with a bag and shook it out.  April stared at him, lost.  “For the, uh, mess in the living room.  Figured you might need a little help cleaning it up.”

“Oh no, no. Casey, really. I’ve got it.  You’ve been through enough.”

“Please,” he rolled his eyes and sauntered past her.  He knelt on her living room rug and started to gingerly scoop up broken bits of plaster.  “I’ve been through way worse than someone throwing a few things at my head.  Once I got thrown through a half-finished plaster wall . . .” he started and chuckled with his head down.

April tossed a few pillows back onto the couch and adjusted the cushions.  “Was that at a hockey game?” she asked bemused.  She knew games could get violent, but not throwing-someone-through-a-wall-violent.

For a minute, Casey fell still.  She turned her head to see him hunched over the broken bits of Freud’s bust. 

“I dunno, uh, I don’t remember,” he said quietly to the floor, suddenly all the boisterousness that had just possessed him seemed to deflate.  He joked, fluttering his fingers at the side of his head, but it came out flat and forced, “Got my brains scrambled from the sport, I guess.  Heh.”

April frowned, wariness that Casey was hiding the truth of his encounter with her father flashed through her.  Something was definitely wrong.  He was hiding something.  Something unpleasant.  She didn’t need her extra senses to pick up on it.  Her stomach dropped, turned to a ball of ice.  If her dad had hurt him, she would have to find outside help.  It was one thing to deal with his confusion and outbursts on her own, it was another thing if he was attacking her friends.  Few that she had. 

“Casey?”

She moved towards him and felt the wall.  It rose up between them, invisible and cold, her extra senses knocked back and the words, _Do Not Enter_ , assaulted her to a point that she could taste them; knotted and sour at the back of her tongue.  She caught her breath, reeling and swallowed against the bitter lump.  She eased herself closer to where he resumed picking up the shards with stiff movements.  She knelt next to him and slid a larger piece of the broken plaster into the bag.

“I’m really sorry.”

“C’mon,” he said and his voice wavered only a little before it came back to its natural strength, “it’s no big deal.”

She hmm’d at that and continued in silence.  Feeling the waves of his cautiousness.  Tasting the peaks foaming with embarrassment and fear. 

“My dad goes nuts all the time,” he added with a quick sidelong glance at her to gauge her reaction. 

A vision, muted at the edges, came at her then.  A man, tall and wide, built like a bulldozer loomed over her, fury and hatred crackled around his form.  A fist like a mallet reared back.  She heard him curse, _‘Bitch!’_ Someone was crying, a little girl, who was April and not April, someone younger, small and full of terror and misery.  Her fear was a glass frame fracturing around the image.  April heard Casey’s voice through the storm and it was brave and strong and the monstrous figure wheeled around to face him and with it came all the thundering fury crashing into the boy. 

April blinked with the first shot of crippling pain and it was gone.  She stared at the floor between them, fingering a shard, pointed at both ends, smooth in the center; unable to look up, not trusting her expression.  Not wanting him to see that she understood, too well, what he was keeping from her.  Her abilities were a blessing and a curse and some days, she simply didn’t know what to do with what was given to her.  What could she do?  Pity would drive him away.  Compassion may read like feeling sorry for him.  So, she kept her gaze lowered, pretended not to have heard what he said.  Or that it was nothing of importance.  Nothing at all.

Casey watched her face carefully from the corner of his eye.  When she didn’t press or give him any kind of look that resembled pity, Casey laughed and tied the bag closed.  His relief flooded the room.  The shame eased back. 

“How about some grub?  You hungry?  Your dad seemed to like my cookin’.  There were more ramen squares in your pantry,” he added in a tempting voice.  He gave her an easy smile, revealing the gap in his teeth and she felt herself relax, for the first time in many hours.

* * *

Later, as she sat back, an empty bowl, still warm from the noodles, on her lap, she finished explaining to Casey what had happened to Donatello and why she wasn’t home when he had stopped by.  Casey sat frowning, leaning forward, elbows on his knees, staring into his bowl.  For several minutes he remained like that, digesting the terrible story that April had relayed to him.  He reached out and set it on the low coffee table.  He slid from where he sat and plopped onto the rug, crossed legged and picked at the tufts just in front of his ankles.

“That’s horrible,” he said quietly.  “His left hand . . .” he shook his head.  “Freakin’ Kraang,” he said suddenly and looked at her, eyes flashing, “I hate those creeps!”

“I know.”

He punched the floor and then slammed his back against the couch.  “How’s everyone?  How’s Raph takin’ it?”

“Raph?” she asked and considered it.  “As well as he can, I guess.  Everyone’s pretty shaken up, especially after what happened this morning.”

_“Ugh.”_

“He asked me to come down and stay with them.  But, Casey.”

His face snapped up.

“How can I leave when my dad’s like this?  It’s like I’m being torn in half.”

Casey started shaking his head.  He climbed to stand and stooped to take her bowl.  He stacked it in his and marched into the kitchen, leaving her sitting in place, lost in her worry.  When he returned he had a determined look on his face.

“You don’t have to do this all on your own, April.  I’m gonna help.”

“What?”

“Look, my sister is going to be spending the week with my grandma up at the Jones’ farmhouse in Northampton,” he started.  “She’s leaving next Friday for Spring Break.  I’ll tell my dad that I’m gonna be hangin’ with friends and . . .”

She started shaking her head.

“Red, listen to me.  Your dad is going to be okay.  He’s much better than before, right?  Isn’t that what you told me?  That it was worse before, right after he changed back?”

“Well, yeah, but –“

“That’s good.  See?  Improvement,” he said as though it was the simplest thing in the world.  He braced his hands on his hips.  “Now, no, don’t interrupt.  Hear me out.  I can stay here and keep an eye on your dad, while you help out at the lair.”

She stood up.  “I couldn’t ask that of you, Casey!”

He put his hands up.  He moved towards her, reached out and took one of her hands into his own.  “Please, April.  Let me do this for you.  But also,” he gave her a half shrug, “for them.”

Her eyes bounced between his.  Her gaze lingered on the ugly bruising and swelling around his eye; knowing the terrible truth; his shameful secret: that it wasn’t hockey that had done that to him.  She blinked as her eyes dropped to his chest and stomach; realizing that there were many more bruises on his body that she wouldn’t ever see; scars that would mar his outlook on life in the years to come.  In a powerful wave of vulnerability, she felt it all; saw it; tasted it. 

His helplessness, cowering and brittle like burnt caramel; his loyalty to his sister, gold and unmarred; his feelings for her, tender and soft, feathers just dancing along the surface of a still lake; his fear like damp wool, smothering and thick; and above all that, threatening and dark, was the pulsing anger in the distance of his psyche, a boiling storm on the horizon.  Bleak and immense, imposing with the potential to devour all else.  She swallowed.  A wavering lingering last emotion hit her.  Something genuinely tender and subtle, but unwavering: his concern for his friends. 

The revealing moment passed as the wall went up between them again as he released her hand in a sudden flush of self-consciousness.  But not before she realized Casey’s light could shine, when the clouds of his torment gave way, rare though it might be, because there was hurt here, immeasurable and damaging.  But he clung bravely to what he believed in.  His own sense of right and wrong.  And that just might be enough to save him.

A lump formed in her throat, she reached out and grabbed his shirtsleeves, ignoring the near imperceptible flinch, saw his eyes go wide as saucers as she pulled him into a hug.  She felt him stiffen with surprise, then relax.  He rested his cheek on her head, his thin but toned arms wrapped around her, tentative and nervously.

“Thank you, Casey.”

“Don’t mention it, red,” he murmured into her hair.  “Least I can do.  For my friends.”

There was a lot more to this guy than she could’ve ever guessed.  She never expected him to be this loyal, this good.  There was the anger, though, and it worried her.  Made her wonder if he’d be able to surpass the damage done by an abusive father.  Knowing that what she’d seen and felt was merely the very edge of what he was living through.  There may be so much more to what he was enduring.  It hurt her to even think about it.  It made her feel helpless and angry, herself.  It was unfair.  So unfair.

They broke from the embrace and Casey coughed, taking another step away.  His cheeks pink. “S-So, uh, I should go.  But, I’ll be here next week.  With, uh, plenty of ramen packed.”

She nodded once and sighed.  “Okay.”  She watched him go and flopped back down on the couch.  Feeling exhausted but hopeful.  She reached into her pocket and texted Michelangelo, asking how Donnie was doing and letting him know that she could finally come down after the following week and stay.


	9. The Seed of the Irrevocable

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Donatello becomes the very embodiment of bitterness. Sorrow comes later.

 

 _"Bitterness: anger that forgot where it came from."_ -Alain De Botton

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He swam, taking wide sweeps of his arms through the glinting water, towards a surface that shimmered somewhere above him. Not far. Not far at all. His chest pinched from the effort of holding his breath and exerting his body; muscles burning with their need of oxygen. His cheeks bulged as the pressure behind his eyes grew more intense. A little further. Don't stop.  _If you stop you'll sink._  The surface remained above; out of reach; no matter how hard he swam. He drew no closer. Panic blossomed in his chest. He swam harder. Eyes locked on that glimmering goal, just beyond his gaze, painfully near. His face twisted in fear and frustration.

_I'm going to die._

His legs kicked and pumped. His attempts became more frenzied and desperate as the water grew thicker; denser all around him. His vision blurred. The lights above swayed right to left and back again. Something bit into his left arm and he started and gasped, dragging the gel-like liquid into his mouth and lungs. The pain zipped up through his bicep, around his shoulder and into his back. Crimping and cramping. Electric and terrible. Making his left hand curl into a claw-like hook. Fingers bent and elbow stiff. He brought his arm to his chest. He choked and struggled against the terrible pain, spinning in place; his legs thrashing and flailing uselessly; suspended and helpless in the murky depths.

A voice, clear and sweet, called to him; ringing sharp and real in his ears. His name being called. His face turned towards that voice. His body wheeled about, in the general direction of it and the promise of help it brought.

"Donnie?"

His eyes opened. Pupils shrank and burned from the light. He blinked rapidly against the onslaught.

"There you are," Mikey said as their eyes locked. He smiled but the light in his eyes was dimmed; opaque from worry.

 _Where?_  Donatello's eyes darted around and though he recognized his brother, he started and began to shake. He felt Mikey's hands steady him. He was eased back without ever realizing that he'd sat upright. He blinked as the back of his head touched the pillow. He felt the room tip as his head swam. His legs struggled weakly beneath a cotton blanket.

"M-" he started and broke into a coughing fit. Suddenly his throat felt packed by damp wool and a tang of something bitter coated his tongue. Vomit.

A cup was brought to his mouth and water, tasting sweet and cool, washed over his parched tongue, sweeping the awful taste away; melting the wool in the back of his throat like cotton candy dissolving in the rain. He drank and moaned as the cup emptied and left his lips.

"Not too much, too fast," Mikey chided gently. "I'm sorry about you being so thirsty. I remembered you said to always watch for dehybration. And . . . I would've put in another IV, but, we sort of ran out. But now that you're awake, that shouldn't be a problem."

His body fired frantic messages of pain from different places. His stomach gurgled as it accepted the water. His head felt tight and under pressure as though something were steadily screwing bolts into his skull from either temple. The light made his eyes water. And his left arm felt as if someone had laid cinder blocks on top of it.

He grimaced and reached for his left hand which suddenly flared with pins and needles; sharp and acute, from his fingertips through his wrist. He grasped at air and froze. Eyes forward, staring up at the ceiling, his fingers inched forward searching for their partners until they pressed upon the cotton surface of the mattress. His eyelids lowered as his fingertips roved upwards, mentally measuring the loss of flesh and bone in millimeters, centimeters, inches; feeling his heart beat faster with each additional number he added until he reached the very edge of the large bandage. His hand . . . his forearm . . . his elbow. His heart sank.

 _Oh god, no. What have they done to me?_   _I can't make a prosthetic for this!_

It was only his hand that had been injured. Not his entire arm! He could deal with missing his hand, it wasn't going to be fun or easy, but he had come to terms with the fact that an amputation was inevitable, but this!? How could they have mutilated him this way? How was he going to work . . . to fight . . . to live without his arm? He'd be nothing but a dependent . . . a burden to them all. Despair drowned him, pulling him under swiftly before he could fight it.

He must have made a sound, because Mikey was next to him again, babbling frantically for him to relax. Maybe more than a sound issued from his collapsing throat. He became aware that he was crying out in a hoarse, high voice, "M-My hand . . . M-My arm! My arm! Wh-Why'd they take so much!? Mikey! M-Mikey!" He reached out and snatched at his brother's shoulder until his clawing fingers found the back of his head and he dragged at his brother until Mikey pitched forward. "H-Help me! Mikey, why!?"

He felt his brother's arms wrap around his chest. His cheek pressed hard into his plastron. "It's okay, D! Calm down! It's okay!"

"N-No! It isn't, oh god, it isn't!"

His heels dug into the mattress as his body bucked. Mikey held him against the cot, still trying to soothe and calm him with comforting sounds and reassurances that made no sense. Slowly, exhaustion and pain won out over the sense of panic and he eased back, surrendering to his brother's ministrations. And comprehension of what Mikey was saying cleared the remaining fog from his mind.

"Please, Donnie! Listen! You had a bad infection! We . . . We thought you might die! B-But Master Splinter knew what to do, Donnie! He listened to me the second time! He did everything right. And now you're better! You don't even have a fever!" he cried out in a laughing voice, mixed with fright and feeble reassurance.

_The second time. The second time!?_

_"Ohho god!"_

He choked as a flash of brittle rage rushed through him. His eyes rolled. He couldn't breathe. He needed to get away from his brother, from all of them. A scream was working its way up through his chest. Made up of anguish and fury, frustration and terror, boiling up and over. His head snapped from side to side. This couldn't be happening. If Splinter had only given him a chance to explain what he needed to do the very first time instead of rushing out of fear.

_And ignorance! And hubris! He always has to be right! Even when he's wrong! Now I'm a mangled freak! I'll be useless to them! Useless!_

"Take it easy, D! You're going to hurt yourself again! Listen to me! You're gonna be okay! I promised April I'd take care of you!"

At the sound of her name Donatello groaned loudly, remembered with painful vividness her witnessing his shame; when he was in a drunken, sloppy state, crying and thrashing on the operating table like a dog. Humiliation twisted his stomach. Adrenaline coursed through his system. His left arm raised to shove Mikey from him. He had to get out of here before they killed him! He had to . . . run . . . to escape. As he moved the stub of what remained of his upper arm, it bumped Mikey's shoulder, sending wave after wave of nauseating pain through him. His back arched against his shell. His teeth snapped together and ground until his molars creaked. Bright lights of agony bubbled up and danced across his vision. He gasped and gurgled against the rising bile.

Mikey lurched back. "Oh no, not again! Let me get the bucket, Donnie!"

Trembling violently, he shook his head and wrestled to compose himself as he dry-sobbed against the emotions storming through him. The pain had effectively doused the panic and all he could do was lay in helpless misery. Blinking like a lab animal against the unfairness, the inadvertent cruelty done to him by those who supposedly loved him. The pain was now a throbbing tide; surging less and less with each passing second to draw back into a low heavy drumbeat laced with stinging barbs. And instead of his stomach contents, a strained sound, a terrible acknowledgement of the ridiculous situation, a broken chuckle burst from between his lips.

Mikey twisted quickly, a confused frown on his face. He brought the rim of the bucket up to his brother's mouth. Donatello shook his head. Mikey stood there a moment longer, unsure if he trusted his brother's assurance that he didn't need it. At the repeated sound of dark laughter from his brother, Mikey relented and eased back, never taking his eyes off Donatello. He swallowed loudly.

"Donnie," he whispered.

Donatello sniffed and settled with a wince and a half-hearted shrug. His smile was crooked and drooping at the ends. "What did I expect?" he murmured and choked out a laugh again, bringing his right hand to cover his face in a light grip. He had to stop or he wouldn't be able to control it. Hysteria. Wasn't that a sign of shock? He wasn't sure. He didn't care. He peered through his fingers at Mikey staring at him with an expression of fear and concern.

"Sorry," he murmured and bit back another bout of giggling. The last thing he needed was to make his brother thing he lost his mind. Who knows what they'd do to him then.

_Stop. Stop it, Donnie-boy. Mikey doesn't deserve to be scared like this._

But it was all so sadly hysterical. Wasn't it? He dropped his hand limply to his side and sighed. Yes and no - as Master Splinter would say. He fought the urge to laugh again and felt his eyes brimming. Dammit. What would be worse? More laughter or a total melt down? What would be more appropriate for the situation? Donatello made a soft sound through his nose.

When the Skipper hit him, he knew what was to come. He knew as he tried doing a field dressing at the location. There was no way he'd be able to keep the hand. The damage was complete. Devastating and exact. What hurt him more than the loss of his appendage was that his father hadn't given him the chance to prepare himself. Not really. No chance to prepare any of them on how to amputate his limb properly. And when he fought against the vile alcohol that his father forced him to drink; the pathetic amateurish way of getting him unconscious . . . most likely what led to the secondary infection. His breath hitched.

His mind worked, giving him something to focus on instead of the pounding between his eyes, the throbbing insistence of his aching missing hand and the threat of tears growing stronger by the second.

Yes, a secondary infection must have set in after the first attempt. No doubt perpetuated by the weakening of his immune system due to the influx of so much hard liquor, the blood loss and general unsanitary conditions of the lab. The tissue probably swelled and discolored and his fever probably spiked dangerously high. What choice was there?

He thought of something, then. He needed to thank Mikey for keeping his head. For paying attention in the lab all those times. But Donatello found himself unable to voice his gratitude as it stuck in his throat, lodging there like something resembling resentment and disgust, instead. He ground his teeth together and struggled against the fury building in his chest. He realized with a start that Mikey had been talking to him.

". . . spewed pretty bad earlier, but I managed to clean you up." He looked sheepish as he glanced around before he took the chance to meet Donatello's eyes again. "Got me right in the face, heh." He made an exploding motion towards his face with both hands and laughed weakly. He sobered as Donatello continued to stare at him; face pale and eyes pinched with something like wild disbelief and . . . anger? Mikey gulped and then reassured him, thinking he discovered the source of his brother's animosity, "D-Don't worry, though, I made sure to keep the wound clean. I swear. I didn't . . . I didn't mess it up."

A tremor went through Donatello and his eyes shot from the large bandage covering what was left of his arm, which was frightening less than he expected to lose, then back to Mikey. He scowled and Mikey blanched and shrank back.

"I did a good job on it, D, I promise," he breathed again, sounding more frightful than confident.

"Where is it?" Donatello snapped and surprised himself with the question. That was the least of his concerns and why he asked such an irrelevant question, he couldn't guess. But something spurred him to ask and now that he had, he was possessed by a grotesque curiosity. He had to know.

Mikey's face grew ashen and slightly mottled around his neck and cheeks. "I-I don't . . ." he stammered.

"Tell me what you did with my arm," Donatello said between clenched teeth.

"I b-burned it in the furnace," he replied quietly.

Donatello nodded and the motion renewed his stomach's attempts to empty itself. He held his breath and blew it out in a hitched exhale as the urge fled. "Good," he croaked. It was probably too damaged between the burned flesh and the infection to even consider salvaging any of it. He glanced again at the stub that extended down from his shoulder, what was actually left was most likely much smaller beneath the wrapping, he grimaced.

"I was able to stitch everything," Mikey started softly, "and the-the stump is really, well, I think, you'd think I did okay, with the stitching. I didn't have to do a skin graph," he said brightly and then withered at Donatello's glare. His wide eyes searched the room, looking everywhere but at him, then, as if just realizing, "Oh, are you in pain?" He glanced at the clock. When he glanced back his face was a picture of relief. "So that's why you're so, er, I mean, y-you're due for more. I'll be right back!"

"Wait," Donatello called, reaching out to his brother and the effort of raising his voice and moving quickly brought another series of cramping pain through his chest and shoulder, followed by a fresh surge of frustration and anger. He panted and his face twisted.  _Don't cry._  His chest heaved as he gathered his strength. He grew more and more exhausted with each passing moment, keeping hold of his composure became a losing battle. "How long have I been . . . out, exactly?"

"Well," Mikey's forehead wrinkled in a deep frown. His arms crossed and then he dropped them. Hesitantly, he said, "You've been awake, before this. So, it's kinda hard to say,  _exactly_."

Donatello blinked at that bit of information. "What?"

He nodded and looked uncomfortable. "Um, you were, uh, just awake last night, actually . . . uh, screaming at Master Splinter about, uh, um, what happened." He squirmed under Donatello's intense scrutiny. "A-And, then, the other day, I think it was, three, uh, days ago . . . when Leo was in here, I think you must of said something pretty bad to him, because you, uh, sort of made him run out of here . . . and he was, sort of . . . crying. But he wouldn't tell us what happened."

His stomach sank. He had no recollection of any earlier bouts of consciousness or interactions with his family before this. He certainly didn't remember yelling at anyone or saying anything so horrible that would cause their leader to break down. It must have been awful. He hoped that he'd be able to apologize to Leo, soon, for whatever he'd said, if this was true. And yet, when he tried to, when he concentrated, there  _was_  a glimmer of something like recognition. He knew Mikey wasn't making any of this up. Patients often spoke out of their minds when under the influence of heavy medication and extreme pain.  _Could they blame him?_  he thought angrily.

And there was also, shamefully, but undeniably, the curl of some dark emotion stirring in the lowest part of his psyche, something like satisfaction, as he listened to the scenes Mikey recalled. He brushed aside the guilt for his pleasure, however small, at his being the cause of hurt for his family. It made sense. He was angry. For so many reasons. And if he were to be completely honest with himself, he felt justified for this feeling. More than justified. He huffed and Mikey seemed to think it was out of regret.

"Don't worry about it, D! I think the pain meds and just getting through everything has probably made you a little out of it." He offered after a beat, "Everyone understands. No one's mad."

The swirling anger spiked despite the pull of exhaustion. Donatello ignored Mikey's suggestion that there was nothing to worry about. As far as his family's feelings were concerned, he didn't care if they were mad at him or not for ranting when he was out of his head. Especially after what they did. Giving him no chance to explain how to go about an amputation correctly in the first place. After poisoning him with alcohol instead of listening to him or waiting for Mikey, the only one out of the lot of them that actually knew anything medically related from hanging around with him in his lab so often. And after all that . . . pain and humiliation, despite April standing right there to witness the entire god-awful mess, Splinter still had Leo mutilate him. And even then, it all went wrong. What else did he expect? If he wasn't so angry right then he would have resumed laughing at the situation like a loon.

Right now, he wanted nothing but to surrender to his need to sleep, but not before he learned how much time had passed. "Just tell me how long," he ground out, making Mikey jump.

"I guess, you've been out, well, in and out, for about," he counted on his hand, and nodding miserably, he finished with, "nine days."

Donatello closed his eyes and felt the enormity of his emotions sweep him and tumble him and through it all his fingers of his missing appendage tingled and ached. He must have just started to doze because Mikey was suddenly looming over him again with a dripping syringe and a smile. He blinked warily up at his younger brother.

"What?" he asked weakly and the pounding in his head returned. God, he just wanted to sleep. Why wouldn't Mikey leave him alone for five minutes?

"Hey! I know something that'll cheer you up, bro!" He said from around the corner of an alcohol package. He tore it open and pulled the small square free.

Donatello winced at his brother's enthusiastic tone. He wanted to bite out that the only thing that would cheer him up would be for him to stop talking so loudly. But he closed his eyes and decided to just ignore his brother until he went away. Hopefully, soon.

"April's here! She just got here and she's brought a bunch of supplies."

His eyes snapped open. His body turned to ice.

Mikey carefully swabbed his arm with the alcohol pad and the pinch of the needle biting into his flesh snapped him from his stupor. "April? Here?"

"It's great, I know," he said cheerfully and Donatello caught sight of the glassy sheen to his brother's eyes, the red veins tinging the whites pink as if he'd just been fighting tears. Remorse for his earlier behavior swept through him but was quickly extinguished by what Mikey added next. "She wanted to help you. And," he chuckled, "we all think having her around will be just the thing to make you feel better! Am I right?" he asked cheekily.

Automatically, "No."

Mikey's grin dropped. He blinked twice in rapid succession. "Wh-What?"

"Tell her to go home."

"B-But . . ."

The pain killer began to set in and the room behind Mikey's head suddenly blurred and spun. Donatello frowned, thinking he'd have to talk to Mikey about proper dosage the next time he could speak coherently. If this dose didn't, in fact, put him permanently out of his misery, that is. His tongue felt clumsy and heavy in his mouth. He worked his numbing lips open and closed and forced out, "Don't need help. Don't wan' her a see me. Tell . . . go home. April. Go."

Mikey's face ran through several emotions before settling on dismissive relief. He laughed loudly and there was a brittle note to the edges. His fingers tapped along the empty syringe as he shifted it from one hand to the other. "Oh, bro, don't worry! It's all good! Casey is taking care of her dad while she stays with us. Isn't that great of him?"

He managed a groan as his head rolled towards the wall and darkness crept over his vision, smothering any further protests.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> He is just not having a chance to properly process any of this, now is he? Hmm, I wonder how he'll behave around April...something tells me that her appearance and her attentions are only going to infuriate him more. Thank you for reading and putting up with the long delay in getting this out! xo


	10. Regaining the Illusion of Balance

Raphael stacked the boxes of pain killers and gauze squares neatly into the cabinet near the kitchen sink. April handed him another from the crate of supplies she'd brought over, not just filled with medical supplies, but fresh fruit, eggs and to Master Splinter's joy, wedges of cheddar and colby. Raphael remembered the sad smile that creased his father's shadowed eyes when she pulled them out to show him. A heavy sigh escaped from his lips.

Splinter had hardly eaten anything the past two weeks, despite urging his sons to keep up their strength and vitality by eating even with no appetite. He seemed to be getting by on stubbornness and herbal tea. And it was starting to show. He wondered if Splinter might be tempted if he sliced the cheese neatly and arranged them on a tray with some of the crackers he liked. Raph considered it and then grimaced. Maybe Mikey could give it to him, instead.

A twinge of guilt had him fingering the top of the box. He'd been fighting so much with Leo lately, he was sure their father didn't want to see more of him than he had to.

"You okay, Raph?" April's sweet inquiry had him looking up and giving her a brief nod, dropping his head away and trying to hide the darkened, still-swollen flesh his right eye sported.

He stared down at what he held. A small box with clean syringes. And with it, the promise of more injections. When would this be over? He'd hoped that once the amputation had taken place, Donatello would have his wrist wrapped up and they'd get on with it. Sure he'd need a bit of time to get used to having only one hand, but Raph was sure that Donatello would've whipped up some type of prosthetic and been back on his feet in a week or two.

His face darkened as his frown deepened. But then Leo had to go and mess everything up. That stupid sword wasn't disinfected. Despite what Splinter tried to say to cover for his favorite student, Raph was certain that Leo's katana was what caused the secondary infection to set in. He botched the first amputation, simple as it was, he screwed up. Just as he feared Leo would do. He choked. And then . . . the fever and seizures . . . the nightmares and hallucinations . . . Don screaming about the Kraang eating him . . .

A tremor raced through him. April may have noticed, but she said nothing, keeping her attention on rummaging through the crate for the last of the supplies.

Raph closed his eyes, trying to get himself under control. Worst of all was how Don laid there, day in and day out; panting, grinding his teeth and moaning about his fingers hurting, and all Raph could do was sit by, helpless and mute. Unable to take the pain away, unable to do anything, because the hand that was hurting his brother was gone. What was he supposed to do? What could he do?

The box in his grip crunched slightly as the top buckled. He swallowed dryly, refusing to remember the details of the second amputation. The careful dotted line made along Donatello's bicep, indicating where they'd cut rose up in his mind in spite of his efforts to forget. The cold lump at the center of his stomach rolled and flipped.

"Raph, it's going to be okay."

He dimly heard April say the words meant to comfort and reassure. But the pressure in his chest was crawling up through his neck and smothering him; making it hard to hear, and his eyes kept burning, no matter how much he blinked to make it stop. He took in a ragged breath. Blew it out, forcefully.

He should have known it wouldn't be simple. Not for Don. Not for any of them. Turtle Luck was holding true to form. His brother had only just begun the long journey of misery and healing ahead of him. The sickening knowledge that he'd never be the same was like another blow, because he couldn't be the same now, not now. Not anymore. Not without his arm. Maybe if it had just been his hand, that was bad enough, but his entire fucking arm? Who were they kidding?

Don was ruined. And it was all their fault.

The fear that accompanied these thoughts was icy fingers playing along his spine, dancing along the inside rim of his shell like rippling centipede legs making him grit his teeth and shudder. He glanced at the slightly crumpled box, eyes stinging, then up at her. He rested it on his lap, but held tight to it with his fingertips, afraid that if he let go, he'd need to hold something, and he couldn't risk reaching out to the girl next to him. April hugging him would be the worst. Because if she hugged him, the careful dam he'd constructed would topple, and the tears he'd been hoarding would come spilling out. He couldn't break because he was putting away a few medical supplies. He was tougher than that.

Wasn't he?

"It's really great that you're able to bring all this stuff, April," he said quietly in a strained voice. "We all appreciate it."

She inched closer where she knelt next to him, and shifted the crate of supplies to one side. She rested her hand on his shoulder, felt the way he tensed at her touch, but didn't retreat or press. She just kept her palm lightly upon the sculpted muscle. She took in a careful breath, doing her best to ignore the painful-looking black eye and the worry that soured in her stomach like curdled cream. To pretend that she couldn't sense his aching sorrow and twisting frustration of being useless bleeding into a simmering anger. Black and churning around him, unseen and unfelt by all but her.

"It's the least I can do. Besides, I promised I would help, remember?"

"So, are you, uh, gonna stay now?" he asked her, eyes darting up only to drop back to the box that he fidgeted with in his fingers before placing it carefully next to the others and closed the cabinet door. Moving so that her fingers had no choice but to slide from his shoulder. He shifted slightly to create some distance between the two of them.

April noticed but said nothing. Raphael was not a physical creature. Not when it came to softer emotions like affection and comfort. He stared at her with a hard, searching look, awaiting her answer. She needed to do something with her hands, so she rubbed her palms against her thighs. She stood up. Raphael followed. She ran her hands along her arms as if fighting off a chill.

"Well, ain'tcha?" he pressed aggressively.

"Yeah, for a little while, yeah, I can. For a week, actually. It's Spring Break. No school." She smiled. "Then I'll be coming back whenever I can between school and, uh, taking care of things at home."

Raph nodded but seemed not to hear her, repeating under his breath, "A week. Just a week."

She gave him a smile that didn't quite meet her eyes meant to reassure him, but he wasn't looking at her, he was staring at the floor and thinking hard with his arms crossed defensively over his chest. His emotional turmoil pushed her away and she didn't want to risk upsetting him more, deciding to give him some space.

She crossed the room, glancing at the lab door and wondering when Mikey might give her the okay to go see Donatello. She'd gotten there that morning, but Donatello hadn't been awake. Now, it felt like the drawn out minutes of waiting and waiting were hot tar spilling incrementally over her skin, coating it and making her itch.

Splinter had filled her in on how Donatello had developed a secondary infection which forced them to remove more of his limb days before over the phone. She'd offered to help, not having any idea how she'd leave her father who, at that time, had discovered the crawl space in their attack and wouldn't come out. Pleading, threats and even trying to tempt him with food just wouldn't coax him. She'd decided she would just have to lock him in there if it came to it, but Splinter had reassured her that Michelangelo seemed to have everything under control. Splinter, through the exhaustion in his voice, had sounded slightly astonished even as he said it.

She remembered her relief upon hearing that. Thankfully, they were listening to what Michelangelo knew. Donatello's little hero. She never wanted to kiss a turtle more than she had in that moment.

Just remembering the conversation brought tears of gratitude to her eyes. But the happiness was tempered as she laid her back against the cushion of the sofa. A puff of dust erupted around her head as she did.

She peered over the back of the couch, straining her neck to see the top of the lab door; still shut. She sighed and picked at the hem of her flannel shirt. Considering. They'd needed to take more from Donatello. How much more, no one had been exactly clear. She needed to see for herself just how much. To see just how far he'd have to come to be whole again. Because she feared that what they took may have been more than just flesh and bone.

After she'd hugged Mikey until her arms grew numb that morning, Mikey had told her the details that Splinter wouldn't. She got the full story in a rushed conversation from Mikey, spoken mostly under his breath as though afraid that Raph or Leonardo might overhear him when she'd first arrived. It came out as he helped her lay out her sleeping bag in the spare room, which was the size of a closet, between the lab and Donatello's room.

He described the unexpected fever that spiked in the middle of the night causing Donatello to have a severe febrile seizure, scaring the hell out of Leonardo who had been with him when it happened. He'd fallen asleep and awoke to Donatello's body jumping against the cot, foam bubbling out of the corners of his mouth, eyes open but rolled back, showing only the red-veined whites. Panicked and terrified, Leonardo had gotten their father. Mikey had heard the commotion and had bolted from his bedroom to the lab.

Mikey shivered as he explained the way Splinter's voice cracked as he hollered for Leonardo to do something other than stand in the corner looking like a frightened child. Leo had run to fetch Raphael out of a dreamless, blissful sleep while he searched online about how to bring down Don's fever without causing more damage.

And then, Mikey had paused. April had sat on the edge of the bed with one hand pressed over her mouth, speechless against the tidal emotions flowing out of the young mutant. She wanted to reach out to him, but found her legs numb and heavy. Her body unable to budge. A moment later, Mikey had regained his composure and went on.

Telling her how Raph had lost control when he saw Donatello seizing like that. He turned on Leo; blamed the entire situation on their oldest brother's lack of focus, bringing up that none of this would have happened if he hadn't messed up the first attempt at the amputation, which, of course, resulted in a violent fight.

Everyone had been sleep deprived and super stressed and it was only a matter of time before the two of them erupted. Mikey had slumped onto the bed next to her and she immediately draped an arm over his shoulders and hugged him. Beneath her arm, she felt him trembling.

"It was crazy, April," he'd said. "They were snarling an-and growling like they'd gone completely bonkers." He sniffed and rubbed his snout roughly. "They were acting like animals. Tearing into each other like that. It was," he glanced up to the ceiling and shook his head, casting his mournful blue eyes to her, finishing in a whisper, "it was horrible."

Splinter had chased them out of the lab while he cared after Donatello. The fight had only escalated as it spilled into the main living area of the lair. He didn't see how it happened, but their favorite pinball machine was a casuality of the battle and ended up cracked and inoperational when Raph had apparently slammed Leonardo's body into it. Mikey's bottom lip had trembled, but he went on.

Splinter finally managed to separate them by using pressure points to incapacitate them.

"They couldn't move for an hour afterwards." He choked out a weak laugh. "Serves 'em right. April, I dunno what the heck they were thinking," he started and sniffed again as she squeezed him. "I mean, Don needs us to keep our heads together, you know?"

He fidgeted and dropped his eyes, then heaved a great sigh. "Nah, it's not their faults," he murmured, shaking his head. "Everyone's just scared and tired. Even Splinter. But, you know what?" he'd asked and turned hopeful eyes, bright with unshed tears, in her direction. "It's gonna get better now. You know why?"

"Why, Mikey?" she barely managed, still reeling from the story, still trying to separate her own feelings out from the churning storm hanging invisible, but no less suffocating, in the air around her.

"You're here now," he whispered.

She pinched her eyes closed and pressed her mouth into a tight smile. "That's right."

"He's gonna be so happy to see you," Mikey said as he jumped up, wiping at his cheek with his forearm and blinking rapidly. He glanced at the clock. "I bet he's up now! I'll check on him and see if he's ready for you to go in and visit, okay? Does that sound okay? You're happy to see him, too, right, April?"

She nodded and he nearly skipped as he spun and ran from the room, calling over his shoulder, "I'll let you know when he's ready to see you!"

That had been hours ago. April pinched the bridge of her nose and dropped her hand to her lap. The fight that had left the pinball machine damaged had been a few days ago, if she understood Mikey's story correctly. It was the night before the final procedure.

Now, the entire lair seemed steeped in a bog of depression. She felt it the moment she stepped through the turnstiles. An unnatural hush permeated the atmosphere, leaving her chilled and jumpy. The usual busy sounds of Raphael working out, Mikey playing on the video game system and Leonardo practicing his katas were all missing. The air around her hung in a muted sulk. A leftover miasma of the rage and frustration, the sorrow and guilt, the helplessness, the fear, all seeping through the psyches of the residents of the lair to mingle and drift, to taint and poison. She wished there was some way to air it all out. To banish it.

She looked at Raphael who sat in a semi-daze, lost in his thoughts. Before she could ask if there was anything else he wanted to talk to her about, Leo emerged from Master Splinter's room.

A smile began to form on his face as he saw her but then stopped short as his eyes fell on Raphael, who snapped out of his fugue the instant Leo stepped towards them. He sat glowering through his black eye at his brother. Leonardo's face darkened. Still, he moved unsteadily into the living room and greeted her.

She noticed a pronounced limp in his gait. She eyed him and wondered about how much damage he had sustained from the fight with Raphael. She took one of his hands in hers. Ran her thumb over the bandages covering his knuckles. Mikey wasn't kidding. The fight must have been awful.

Raphael shot a narrow-eyed look at their clasped hands before turning his glare to the floor. April ignored him and the bolt of suspicion that shot from him, chalking it up to his lingering anger at his brother and not taking it personal.

"Leo, how's Splinter?" she asked, knowing to ask how he was doing would only lead him to answer automatically that he was fine, which he was clearly not.

"Splinter is resting. Finally," he said with a sigh. "He had a little tea and then I convinced him to nap."

"Oh, that's good, Leo."

He nodded, "This past week has been pretty rough on him."

"I'm sure it's been very hard on all of you."

The look of gratitude on his face slipped away as Raphael cleared his throat and added, with a curl to his upper lip, "Not as hard as it's been on Donnie."

April felt the surge of fury from Leo, immediate and sharp. It surprised her, both in its severity and depth. She released his hand and stood up, positioning herself between the two of them.

"Can I see him?"

Mikey answered, causing Leo and her to turn in place to see him emerging sheepishly from the lab. "Uh, you know, um, I just gave him a shot and he's, uh, a little out of it. I think he was in pain. He wasn't, uh, really himself, if you know what I mean."

April considered this. She slapped her hands together, making the three brothers jump. "Okay, how's this," she started in her boldest, clearest, take-charge voice, "I'll start dinner while you guys sit back and take it easy."

The three of them immediately spoke, all in a rush, all at the same time.

"What? Why?" "N-No, April, We can't ask you –" "You don't have to do that-"

She raised her hands and they fell silent. She pointed at the couch and Leo sat meekly. She pointed at the loveseat and Mikey sidestepped until he fell into the cushiony seat. She turned and grabbed the remote, thought about it for a second, then handed it to Raphael. He took it with a look of reverence and relief.

"Find a show you guys like, and I'll make spaghetti."

"You mean spaghetti-o's?" Mikey asked.

April smiled and shook her head. "Nope. Real spaghetti."

Mikey's face split into a grin, followed by Leo who exchanged glances with his youngest brother. She peered over at Raph who was fingering the remote. His eyes rose to meet hers.

"Let me help, April."

She shook her head. "Nope. And nobody better ask again. I've got this, okay? You guys need a break. And you know what else?"

They gave her wary glances and shook their heads. She couldn't help but grin. "I'm going to make some brownies for dessert."

Their mouths dropped open and she couldn't help but laugh.

"April, you really," Leo started and she pointed at him with a faux severe look. He raised his hands and fell back into the couch with a slight wince.

"I've got this," she repeated, hands on her hips.

She stared them all down one last time. When she was convinced no one would try to follow, hearing the sound of the television come on, filling the lair with the homey noises of a wrestling match, feeling the depressed turmoil-filled emotions retract and slink back to the shadowy corners of the lair, her smile widened.

"Oh yeah," she said to herself, as she pulled a pan from under a cabinet, followed by a brownie mix that she'd just brought over. "I've got this."

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I sort of love April in this story - she is just taking control here, and I can't stop her, lol. Her playing Mommy just sort of got me in the feels here and I can honestly tell ya, I didn't plan that, she just...took over XD Gotta love when the characters do that.
> 
> The only problem is, she just doesn't have an inkling as to what Donatello is going to be like...will her patience be able to overcome his misery and cranky butt pushing her away? Man, I dunno, why you asking me? LOL! I'm sorry, I'm a little loopy...I'm doing NaNoWriMo and really challenged myself to get this update out for you, dear readers!
> 
> ACK! And I've got a test to study for on Tuesday - BOO!
> 
> Anyway, I will do my best to keep the updates coming - I know I left on an evil cliffie with Sins of the Fathers, but I will really try to get that one update next! Be sure to check out my stories set in the 2k14 'verse as well. And as ALWAYS, thank you for reading and for the support - it means the world to me!


	11. Lashing Out

_You will not be punished for your anger, you will be punished by your anger._  -(quote attributed to Buddha, but origin is actually unknown)

* * *

 

The nutty cocoa scent drifted into the room. It clashed with the brittle sour smell of antiseptic in the back of his sinuses. Eyes closed, he winced and wrinkled his nose; wondering where the smell was coming from, turning his head to one side. The pillow he'd lain upon felt damp under his cheek. His head shifted; face scrunched then relaxed, but not so much that the frown line between his eyes and creases alongside his mouth completely smoothed.

Carefully, he lifted his right hand and moved as in slow motion until he reached his forehead. He felt around and pressed his wrist, considering the temperature. His skin felt cool to the touch. No fever. His breath released in a sigh, slow, through his nose as his arm fell back onto the thin blanket covering him. He blinked several times, trying to clear the fog muddling his sight; feeling his body slinking from the stupor of drug-induced sleep to the aching, stiff blundering of being awake.

Body feeling odd and limp, as though weights were laid on top of his thighs and stomach, he wanted to get up. Off this cot. Away from this wall. Wanted suddenly more than anything to be out of this room; with its harsh lights, washing everything in clinical sterility; its stink of antiseptic ointments and wash, under which the lingering, fecund scent of blood clung stubbornly as a reminder to what had happened here, only days before. His stomach turned with the urgency to flee. He had to get out of here!

He floundered, abdominal muscles tensing as he moved to sit up, and a bolt of pain, numbed though it was from the shot Mikey had administered to him earlier, shot through his left shoulder into his back. Groaning, he ground his teeth together as the feeling faded and eventually sunk to mingle with the other distant discomforts registering throughout his body. He shifted again. A fine sheen of sweat broke out over his face and neck. He pitched forward a few inches, adjusted to the swell of cramping until it leveled out; took in a measured breath, held it and blew it out after a count of seven.

He looked down over his body, emaciated and somehow appearing sunken and carved out. Days of a liquid diet and lying in bed had taken a surprisingly harsh toll on him. He sneered, feeling defiant and angry. He gripped the rumpled blanket lying across his torso; took it and flung it to the floor with as much savage glee to be rid of it as he could muster. Better.

"Huh, small victories," he mumbled aloud, blinking and working his tongue around the inside of his mouth. It tasted thick and coated. He smacked his lips and grimaced.

He felt the need for a toothbrush and redoubled his efforts to get out of the infirmary. Using his right hand as leverage, he worked his way up to sitting. The action was clumsy and felt all kinds of wrong as he struggled. It was much harder than he thought, granted he was still recovering, he understood this, but the mood he currently steeped inside left little room for reason. His chest pinched. He wanted to get up. He wanted out of this damn bed!

He managed, finally, to bring himself upright, with gritted teeth and a stubborn refusal to be in this room one minute longer fueling the determination. His long legs bent at the knees and he lurched forward with a soft groan and grunt, feeling a surge of triumph as he trembled and looked around.

"Ha," he cried weakly. His head swam and his body grew heavy. "Whoa." He blinked rapidly until the dizzy spell passed, giving himself another moment to get acclimated. He scratched gently at the bandages wrapped around the front of his neck, keeping his shortened limb close to his body and more or less immobile. He rotated his right shoulder as his fingers lingered along his opposite one. His head ducked as another sweeping course of dull pain rose and ebbed. He opened one eye, sniffed and scowled. "Ugh, I stink." The thought of a sponge bath given to him by Mikey had his energy renewed.

"Take it one simple step at a time," he muttered to himself, wiggling his toes, the only part of his body that seemed to exist out of the realm of pain. He eased first one leg over the side of the bed, then the other. This time the movement of his body provided less pain and a jab of confidence tweaked the corner of his mouth nearly into a half-smile.

He froze as a peal of laughter came through the closed door of the lab. The smile, half-formed as it was, dropped from his face. He tipped his head, listening, eyes to one side, locked on the floor of the lab, where dark blotches on the floor indicated bloodstains. His heart sped up. His fingers squeezed the rolled edge of the cot. The laughter came again, softer, but breaking into individual voices. A swelling of mixed emotions ran through him. He pinched his eyes shut. With a deep breath he slipped from the cot.

He stumbled forward, knees like jelly, wobbling onward, as the room spun and dipped. He caught the door frame, panting and both exhilarated and cringing as the cramping pain radiated again; this time through his chest as well as his neck and back. He took in a shuddering breath, blew it out and cracked the door open; peering into the living room. The furniture flickered with shadows and light as the television played without an audience. He opened the door further. Risking poking his head through and glancing around.

The sound of voices rose up from the kitchen. His heart sped up even as his chest closed tight around it. What were they doing?  _Having dinner, stupid._  He blinked and ducked his head. Why shouldn't they? His eyes, red-rimmed and glassy, darted around as he leaned on the door frame. Feeling excluded and forgotten despite his better judgment.

He suddenly noticed the layered aromas of tomato sauce, basil and the meaty tang of ground beef; above that though, the dark cocoa smell, rich and overwhelming as it invaded his space. He brought his hand to his suddenly salivating mouth and choked. His stomach folded in on itself and rumbled with a keen demand.

"I'm just saying that if you wanted, next time, I could go for more heat. One spicy meat-ball!" Mikey quipped with an exaggerated Italian accent, his voice sounding so happy and light that it made Donatello hesitate.

"I'll keep that in mind," April responded and the sweetness of hearing her voice was sharp like a poisoned dart. Which got Raph to immediately boast, "I ate a habanero pepper once! Didn't even feel it."

"Oh really! That's impressive," she said and someone snorted derisively. Most likely Leonardo, based on April's hasty interjection, "I hope everyone saved room for dessert!"

There was a chorus of agreement and happy wordless noises. Donatello's eyes dropped. They sounded so normal. As if it were any late afternoon at any time of the year. The reverberations of their excitement seemed to cast a shadow that slid across the floor to meet him where he stood. Enveloping, separating, chilling him.

 _And why should it be any different_? the traitorous voice whispered in the back of his mind.  _It's just you._

He reached up and held onto his left shoulder, feeling it throb out of sync with his heavy heartbeats; off just slightly, adding to the surreal, nauseating effects. One foot shifted and bumped into the other. Inching away piecemeal. His mournful eyes rolled and glancing back into the lab, he considered crawling back inside to his sweat-stained cot. Where they expected him to be. To not intrude on the homey scene being played out in the kitchen. Without him.

_What did you expect?_

A bitter sounding chuckle erupted from the base of his throat, making him start. He straightened up and swallowed roughly, working his thick, dry tongue against the rough patch at the roof of his mouth. He needed some water. Suddenly he was terribly thirsty. He just had to get to the kitchen to get something to drink. The vision of a sweating glass rose up in his mind; the pearls of condensation dribbled down the slick surface to pool at the base, sparkling as they jittered downwards. His parched throat worked, making his Adam's Apple bob.

He took two wavering steps forward only to stutter to a halt. Wait. He wasn't sure he wanted to see April. He frowned, searching the space in front of him, but seeing nothing. Didn't he tell Mikey to send her home? That he didn't want her here? How insensitive of his brothers to invite her down here when he was literally in pieces. A tremor went through him. His jaw worked. Anger suffused him, giving him a momentary burst of strength.

He took several large steps towards the kitchen, but his legs were not prepared for the lunging motion; they were weak and unstable; making him waver first to the left, then the right, throwing off his intended trajectory. And making him serpentine his way across the room like a fool. He breached the threshold of the warm light from the kitchen and stopped. Panting lightly, he looked around. Their shells were to him, Raph close enough that had he reached out, he could have flicked his shell. He froze. April was in front of the stove. Her back to him as she pulled a tray from the oven.

Feeling unsure, his bravado and anger abandoning him all in one swift rush, he backpedaled. His stomach lost any earlier urges for food and now spun and rolled from both the exertion of walking across the room and laying eyes upon her. As he wheeled around, he felt his head swim and tip. He needed to get out of here before she noticed. Before any of them did. He decided the lavatory would be a fine sanctuary to ride out the butterflies and nausea playing mortal combat throughout his digestive system. But just as he was about to head for the bathroom, from the corner of his eye he saw her as she turned; tray in hand. Her smile instantly dropped into a look of bright surprise; a soft gasp stole from her partially opened mouth. Her expression had everyone spinning around to see what had brought the instant change to their friend's face.

"D-Donnie!"

He cringed. Holding gently onto his left shoulder, he inched back farther even as they grouped around and in front of him, crowding him. All speaking at once, too loudly. Too frantically. "No, bro!" "What are you doing up?!" "Donatello!" "Are you crazy?" Their faces holding expressions of worry and - he noted with a snarling curl of bitter validation of his self-destructive inner voice – what could only be taken as irritation.

_Interrupting their happy little get together. Nice job._

His stomach lurched again. He tasted bile and his gorge rose. "Ugh," he groaned and stumbled past their outreaching hands to the bathroom. In a clumsy sprint, he made it to the door, threw it open and fell onto the floor, scrambling to the toilet's rim just in time. His stomach lurched and he heaved and choked.

Being indisposed was no deterrent to his brothers, who all clambered into the cramped room to stand and hover over him as he retched and shook, clinging to the back of the toilet with his right arm. He felt someone tentatively touch his shell. He shuddered. He leaned forward, trying to get away while still emptying the pathetically small amount of liquids from his clenching stomach.

"Get Master Splinter," Leo commanded. "Now."

Raph's sharp response was instantaneous and edged with a challenge, and spitting with venom, "You do it. I'm staying here with him. Someone's gotta watch over him the right way."

"Don't start you guys," Mikey said hastily in a voice just lower than a shout. "Not now!"

Donatello lifted his bobbing head and gazed balefully over his wrapped shoulder. Leonardo fell into a crouch next to him. "D-Donatello, are you . . . can I . . ." Leo's words faltered as their eyes met.

He saw the trepidation and worse yet, the gleam of fear. The half-formed memory of his argument with Leonardo flitted before his mind's eye. Taking shape and solidifying as real as the vomit in the bowl before him.

# # #

"How could you do this to me?" The question, more hiss than words, rose up from inside him and spilled out of his mouth like an evil fog. "How could you take my entire arm," his face crushed into an anguished expression as he enunciated each word. A sound like a sob broke through his dry throat. "Leo, why did you do this to me?"

"I had to, Donnie. I mean . . . You were going to . . . There was an in-infection. A fever . . . I wouldn't have, what I mean is, there wasn't anything else we could . . . but Master Splinter, h-he explained . . ." Leo stammered and sputtered.

The laughter was ugly. The way it so easily glided from him. Poisonous and invisible. Bitter and in a distorted way, satisfying. Like rubbing at a scab, picking at it until it finally lifts, oozing and raw. Unable to hold back from peeling it off. Despite the knowledge that it would scar, surely it would, if it were torn free. And still, unable to stop, sucking on teeth, it happens. And it's good. In the most awful way.

The exhaustion, the drugs, the pain, the unfairness, the sorrow, the grief, all conspired to shred any sense of filtering his thoughts from his words. They fell from his lips as easily as breathing.

"I shouldn't ever expect you to think for yourself."

Leo's mouth worked, like a fish, gaping; opening part-way, only to flop closed and open once more, over and over again. "Donnie." He squirmed in his seat and tactically tried to change the subject, looking flustered and nervous, said, "You need to rest now."

He moved to adjust the blanket over Donatello but froze mid-way. Donatello stared at him until he fidgeted and sat back. His fingers fumbled with one another on his lap.

In a softer voice, without looking directly at him, Leo added, "You know I would never do anything to hurt you. Any of you. I only want to protect you guys. You're my brother, Donnie. When Master Splinter told me what I had to . . ." he struggled and still Donatello stared at him, flat and hatefully. "I don't -"

"Oh?" He interrupted Leo and there was a savage grin on his face that had Leo snapping his mouth closed. "You want to protect us. Ohho, wow. Where were you when Mikey ran inside the warehouse, then?"

His eyes turned to circles as his face blanched. "I was . . . but, Raph . . ."

"That's right. Raph. Raphael. The scapegoat to all your blunders. So convenient. Am I right? I wonder what you'll do when he finally ditches us. I wonder who you'll blame then. For your failures."

There was a chilled beat of silence. "Donnie," he breathed, barely a whisper, but weighed with immeasurable hurt.

"You can't blame him for everything you fuck up forever, oh captain, my captain," Donnie sneered. Relishing this. This lashing out. It was glorious, in its own ugly way. It felt right in all the aching, wrong ways. He couldn't stop. He didn't want to. He had to get it out; the pain he was feeling threatened to drive him mad. Maybe it was too late.

"One of these days," he huffed and twisted to his right side with a grunt to show off the bandaged nub of what remained of his shoulder, "you're going to have to face the truth," he panted.

Leo's eyes went from the shoulder – his countenance paling further, growing mottled around his cheeks – to his eyes.

"Because you couldn't lead," his bottom lip trembled and the self-hatred he felt in that moment for himself poured into his words, "Because you  _failed_ ," his voice carried as he spat the word and Leo winced, "Mikey nearly died and you . . . you let me get mangled, Leo.  _Mangled_ ," his voice rose and broke. "You can't blame this on Raph, brother. Though I know you'll do your best," His head flopped back and the ceiling spun and circled violently until he closed his tearing eyes.

"No. That isn't . . . Donnie, please," Leo's voice wavered. He slid off the folding chair and knelt next to the cot. "I would take it back, all of it, somehow, if I could." His fingers worked at the blanket.

The laughter came again and it was somehow uglier this time, louder, stronger. Leonardo winced.

He opened his eyes and slowly shook his head back and forth. His right arm lifted and he weakly smacked the thin mattress. "Ah. Right. But you can't. Can you. You screwed up and I get to pay the piper. A right true leader you've turned out to be. Thank you, Leo. You did a great job." He turned his head and started as he saw his brother's stormy eyes bright and glassy with welling tears. But he was too far gone and the last hurt was the best.

"I will never forgive you."

Leonardo's eyelids fluttered as his gaze darted around. Searching for something. His mouth opened but Donatello cut him off, "Get out."

Leo hesitated and Donatello turned his face away. He didn't look until he heard the lab door close with a gentle, quiet click.

# # #

"Donnie, are you . . .?"

In the bathroom, Leonardo's hand hovered just above Donatello's bandaged shoulder, afraid to touch him. Afraid to cause any more pain or discomfort than he was already in. Donnie's eye rolled and stared at his hand until he pulled it away.

"I'm fine," he wheezed. "I just . . . moved too much."

"Give him some space," Mikey said and Leonardo looked up and climbed to stand.

He and Raph exchanged tense gazes before he sidestepped and left them. Raphael relaxed, "Don, if you need to go to the bathroom, you gotta just call one of us."

Donatello wiped his chin with the back of his hand. He glared at Raphael and unsteadily rose to his feet. Mikey moved to help him, but with one withering look from Don, backed up, then hastily crept from the room, mumbling about giving him some space and something about helping April clean the kitchen.

"I have lost an arm, Raphael. I am capable of walking without help," he snapped.

"No shit. Only you just said that you moved too much and now you're puking."

He fidgeted a moment. Raph had him there. He twisted and knocked on the faucet's lever, the water spurted and gushed. He dipped his hand into the splashing water, scooping some into his mouth, swishing it and spitting it into the basin. He eyed his sickly reflection and grimaced. Raphael continued to loom behind him. He sighed.

"What is April doing here?" he asked.

"She's going to stay with us for a while. To help."

Donatello turned and leaned against the sink. "I don't want her here," he said with a slight pout.

Raphael considered that. His jaw worked side to side as he thought it over and if there was an initial look of surprise on his face at the remark, he quickly smoothed it back to his normal unimpressed, grumpy expression. "Well, too bad."

Donatello looked up. His face darkened.

"It ain't up to you."

"I'm not exactly up for visiting," he hissed sarcastically and motioned to his shoulder with his right hand.

"Tough."

They stared at each other for a few tense seconds. Donatello's gaze faltered and Raphael took it as a victory; he moved to help him out of the bathroom. Donatello shrugged out of his grip and immediately regretted the sharp movement. He winced and gasped, hunching over as he exited the room.

"Dammit," he ground out.

"Donnie," April appeared in front of him.

He stiffened, mid-step, feeling suddenly exposed and vulnerable. His heart sped up. His eyes darted around and he noticed that his brothers were all busying themselves with some menial task, pretending to not notice him; all except Raph who continued, infuriatingly, to hover just over his shoulder. His right hand moved instinctively to cover as much of his bandages as he could; spreading his twitching fingers.

"A-April," he started, "what are you doing here?" He reflexively turned his body slightly away from her; doing his best to shield the fact of his missing appendage from her view.

Gently she offered, "Why don't you sit down then we'll talk, okay?"

He began to nod, but caught himself. "No. I mean, I'll sit, but I don't want to talk."

He started back towards the lab but went rigid as he remembered the need to be free of that cell. He pivoted and moved towards his room on wavering steps. Before he realized it, April was taking his right hand into her own, leading him like an invalid. Any other time her touch was like a gift. Something to cherish and savor. Right now, it felt like a condemnation.

He jerked away roughly, wincing with the pain, and she hesitated. A look of surprise crossed her face that she quickly masked. She tucked a strand of hair behind one ear and went on as though nothing had just happened, "Okay, we'll just get you to your room and maybe I could read to you or something? I've been looking forward to seeing -"

"No. I don't want you to read to me. I want you to go home."

She blinked at him, blank faced.

He jerked his head towards the exit. "Leave."

He huffed through his nose and felt his eyes widen, feeling the rush of his anger sweep him along; bracing himself for her reaction; a part of his mind wailing full of regret over his harsh tone; the other part celebrating his bravado to speak in such a way to his long unrequited crush. Mostly he felt chilled and could not stop trembling, but whether it was from adrenaline or fear, he wasn't sure. He just wanted her to go away.

Because, he was tired of it. The longing and the hoping. The minutia of self-examination, going over what he'd said and done in tedious detail, night after night. For what? He realized with a painful start that he was tired of  _her_.

His head spun. His chest pinched and his breath caught. Suddenly, his eyes were burning. He blinked rapidly. He wanted to sit down. He wanted his room. He wanted to be left alone. He wanted her out of his face. With her large eyes, looking so sad and lovely. His heart squeezed and thumped painfully. The softening expression that he'd memorized from so many nights helping her with homework, when she'd get to the point of exhaustion and nearly doze upon his shoulder. Making his heart sing for the contact. Making his wishes so much closer to fruition.

He blinked. Felt something foreign and, until this moment laying in remission, awaken and all at once freeze and harden within him. A kernel of ice at his center. A defiant, troublesome stone sinking down into the pit of his soul, carving its way through him. Splitting him in two.

"Didn't you hear me?" he heard himself say. Wanting to choke. Wanting to die.

Her eyes went huge and he backpedaled, mouth trimmed with apologies that for some reason would not shake loose. He thought she might start to cry and he felt that freezing stone twist. He wanted to fix this but that part of him seemed disconnected and disjointed; lost and fumbling through a twisting dark tunnel. He watched her carefully. Waiting. But she said nothing. He could feel the tension of his brothers holding their collective breath. He knew they heard his harsh exchange with her. He could feel their eyes locked on him and he wanted to sink into the floor and die. His fingers worked weakly at the bandages near his left shoulder. Only the rough sound of his shallow, panting breath filled the space between them.

April squared her shoulders. She turned away from him and he twisted to watch her go into the kitchen.

"I'm going to make some broth," she announced to the room. "And some tea for Master Splinter," she added as an afterthought. Then she looked around as if just waking up. "Since I'm staying for the week, why don't we make a plan for dinner, okay, Mikey? Can you get some paper and a pencil? Maybe we could sort out what kinds of foods would be easy on Donatello's stomach."

Donatello dropped his head, feeling awash in shame and dwindling impotent anger. He shuffled his feet and allowed Raphael to accompany him to his room. Raph opened the door for him and he crept into his room, feeling the weight of exhaustion pull him down as he slumped onto his own mattress. As he eased himself down, he caught his brother's expression.

Raphael looked as though he were about to start bursting out laughing. "Uh, yeah. Call if you need anything."

Donatello moved to grab his pillow and launch it at his smug face, but stopped with a jerking lurch as he realized again, too late, to his dismay and horror, that his left arm was gone. The door to his room closed with a final, meek click.

He shot a quick glance around at his tools, his half-finished devices, his partially-developed toys for Mikey, weapons for Raph, the toaster that Leo had destroyed, laying half-opened on his desk next to his laptop. His chest heaved.

He thought of Leonardo's face in the bathroom. Of the fear he saw in his oldest brother's eyes. Of how he was pushing them all away. How angry he was, how it wouldn't stop no matter what he tried to do to calm himself. As though he were unraveling, bit by bit now that his arm had been taken from him. He didn't want this. None of this. Why was this happening? His mind raced and scattered.

April's eyes, wide and full of surprise and hurt filled his mind.  _She only wants to help, you fool._ And as he thought on it, the more he saw it there, he was sure: pity. More real than any other feeling she probably ever entertained when it came to him.  _Yeah, she wants to help the poor little crippled freak._

He flopped into his pillow, face twisting in silent torment, mouth falling open in a silent gasp of pain, as burning tears fought their way out.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my poor sweetheart. He's destroying himself. Or trying damn hard to do so.


	12. The Hurt in Healing

_"Turning circles, when time again_

_it cuts like a knife, oh yeah . . ._

_If you love me got to know for sure._

_'Cuz it takes something more this time_

_than sweet, sweet lies_

_before I open up my arms and fall_

_losing all control_

_every dream inside my soul." - David Gray, This Year's Love_

* * *

 

He woke with a gasp. Startling and struggling against the blanket confining his limbs. Something was on his left arm – hurting him – squeezing it with an incredible pressure. He felt the muscles cramp and the entire appendage buzzed with pain.

He sucked in a sharp breath and reached with his right arm in the darkness for the source. It felt as though metal bands were constricting the length of his arm, making his knuckles throb and his fingers cramp. Frantically, he felt about for his arm only to find nothing. His fingers groped in mid-air until they struck the bricks next to his bed.

He started, blinking hard, mouth dropping open in shock. "Wh-What's hap-pening?" He moved to sit up. The end of what remained of his left arm brushed against the wall.

**"AH!"**

He winced as the static-like electric pain sizzled up through the stump into his shoulder and across his chest. Wheezing, he curled forward; chin pressed to his chest. Crumpling towards his left shoulder, towards the throbbing agony.

Hands caught him. He jumped and flailed. "N-No!"

"Donnie!"

He froze. Confusion mottled his already befuddled mind. The pain throbbed and rolled through him, easing now in the intensity. The invisible bands crushing his phantom limb remained, however, still tightly squeezing his non-existent arm.

Her scent wafted over him. Lovely. Intrusive. Wasn't he in his room? What was April doing in here?

 _"Wh-Where am I?"_ he croaked.

"Shh," she said. "You're in your bedroom, Donnie. Do you, uh, need some pain meds?"

He hadn't realized he'd spoken his thought aloud. Memories of the past two weeks flooded his mind, awakening him fully.

_Oh, yeah. My hand and arm . . . his family's bumbling . . . the amputations . . . April here to offer her pity._

His chest heaved as a wave of humiliation hit him. His right arm dropped across his mid-section; reaching for its twin no longer, now hugging his chest somewhat protectively. He turned his face towards the sound of her voice. He opened his mouth to tell her to leave, but the words shriveled on his parched tongue; evaporating with his breath.

In the darkness, he could just make out the curvature of her face, pale like ivory; the glint of white from her eyes gazing at him; the blush of red of her lips. Close enough to feel her breath ghosting along the side of his neck and cheek. Tingling his skin. Awareness of her body, warm and soft, pressed up against his, came to him.

She was next to him. Laying side by side. In his bed. His  _bed_!

His eyes darted around; wide with unwarranted guilt. April. Here, alone in his bedroom. Laying in his bed! Well, it wasn't as if he'd asked her to sleep with him. Face suddenly hot, he shifted and pulled back and scooted away from her, as far as he could get, closer to the wall. He felt the mattress bump as she rose up; her hip pressed into his.

She reached forward and tugged at the pillow behind him. He knocked forward a bit with the force of her effort. Covering his left shoulder to shield it from the brick wall, he scowled at her in the darkness before realizing that she was trying to prop the pillow more comfortably behind his shell. He ducked his head; cheeks burning with shame.

Above the thundering of his heart in his ears, and the slow burning mixture of aggravation and shame in the back of his throat, he heard himself ask in a hoarse voice, "What time is it?"

"Late." She shifted and sat up more, still close, but not touching him any longer.

He wasn't sure how he felt about that. She folded her legs to one side beneath her body. Her hand rested lightly on his right shoulder. He fought the urge to jerk away from her touch while at the same time, he wanted to fold into her arms and sob. Wanted her to tell him that it wasn't wrong to hate his family right now. That he had every right to hate each and every one of them. Because they did this to him. It was their fault. Master Splinter and Leonardo and Raph and Mikey, if he hadn't . . . if they . . . They . . .

No. It wasn't anyone's fault but his own. He should have insisted on scouting the perimeter of that warehouse before any of them made a move; before they'd even left the lair. He knew the Kraang were unpredictable when it came to tech advances. He should have considered the statistical possibilities that they'd run into something like those Skippers. His throat tightened. A lump formed that he could not swallow back.

If anyone had failed them . . . it was him. He sniffed, making her start.

"Donnie?"

He closed his eyes and said nothing.

"Did I . . .? I'm sorry for waking you."

She hadn't, but it didn't matter. The pain in his arm usually woke him as it did this night. But he didn't tell her that. He didn't need her to pity him more than she already did.

His head lulled back onto his pillow and he turned his face to the wall. Resting his forehead on the rough bricks he asked, "What are you doing in here?" His voice wavered at the end and betrayed the rush of emotions he was wrestling.

"I wanted to check on you."

"I'm fine," he lied, voice snappish. Then, more gently, "Go back to bed."

Her hand was against his face. His eyes widened. The brown irises rolled towards her.

"Donnie, now isn't the best time, I know, because you need your rest. But, when you're feeling better, I-I would like to, maybe spend some –"

"Wh-What are you doing?" he asked curtly, cutting her off. His head tipped sharply away from her fingertips. " _Don't_."

She hesitated, but then snatched her hand back; tucking it between her legs. There was silence, uncomfortable and awkward between them. It filled in the space like tar; smothering the occupants of the room. Blotting out light. And hope.

She cleared her throat. "Donnie, I . . . I just, uh, I . . ." She seemed to deflate a bit. Seemed to give up on whatever it was she'd wanted to say.

 _I don't care_ , he thought fiercely and hugged himself tighter. Staring intensely at the space between his bed and the wall. Wishing he could crawl into the shadows there and hide from everyone. He blinked and glanced at her, thinking,  _Will you go away!?_

She sighed. In a small voice she said, "I'm sorry for waking you."

She rose up off the bed and he could see from the corner of his eye how she stood, hesitating, lingering, wringing her hands. Her voice came softer, more of a whisper, "I can't imagine what you're going through. It must be so hard," she said. "But, I want you to know that I'm here. That I want to help. However I can."

He turned his head, pivoting it against the brick and stared up at her. His eyes had adjusted to the darkness fully now, and he could see her, the details of her concern etched across her face. The obvious pity. His stomach clenched.

"Just leave me alone," he ground out, giving voice to his angry thoughts. "Is it that hard to understand? Leave me  _alone_ ," he annunciated each word, emphasizing the last.

She blinked in surprise and straightened, dropping her hands. Her expression held so much hurt that immediately his own eyes widened.

He instantly wished he could take it back; take everything back. And he nearly rolled from the bed to fall at her feet, to cling to her legs and let it all out. The uncontrollable anger at the unfairness of the situation. The guilt over how he'd been acting. The fear and the hopelessness he'd been drowning in.

His mouth dropped open to apologize. But nothing came out. He wanted to get up. To go to her. He couldn't move. Something held him back.

Something ugly and raw in the center of him sat and observed her reaction to his sharp reply with cool satisfaction. The same misshapen, twisted side of him that had lashed out at his father; and more so at Leonardo. It was the wellspring of all the poisoned words he'd spat at his brother. To hurt him. To maim him as severely as he, himself, was wounded. To cast blame upon someone else.

It felt good. It felt sickening.

His face crushed into a frown.  _No_.

He didn't want things this way. He didn't need to take it out on her. She had nothing to do with any of this. And, he realized, he needed her. He didn't want to push her away. He just didn't want her to pity him. He wanted her to accept him. Even now. Even mangled as he was.

But . . . Would she? She hadn't wanted him when he was whole.

_No, she never wanted me. Not like that. And now . . ._

Donatello felt his eyes stinging; the lump in his throat choked him. That didn't matter. Not anymore. That was done. But she was still his friend. And he needed a friend. He didn't deserve one, he understood that, but he needed one. More than ever before.

He sat upright and raised his hand to reach for her, but she hadn't noticed that he'd moved.

Her face darted about, looking everywhere but at him; she tucked her chin, backing up several steps from the bed; from him. Her hands were up in surrender or in defense against him and his cold, hurtful words.

With another half-step back, just inside his door, she said, voice thick with emotion, "Right. I-I'll see you in the morning, then."

"April," he started, mouth full of ripe apologies and sour regret, but she'd already closed the door behind her. "Wait," he said to the door. "April? April, I . . .  _Dammit_."

He twisted where he sat, struggling with his feet and legs tangled in the coverlet and sheet. Kicking his feet to get free, unused to the imbalance of his upper body, he wobbled and bumped his shoulder into the wall. He snarled; cursing through gritted teeth. Shuddering, he sucked in his breath between his teeth. The wave of pain coursed through him. Turning his stomach and making his bowels weak and his knees tremble and knock into one another.

But as soon as he was able, he forced back the immobilizing ache; blinked through the white haze that blinded him, leaving his eyes moist with tears unshed. He had to talk to her!

Free of the blankets, he stumbled the few feet separating the door from his bed. He yanked it open, casting about for her. He took a few steps forward.

"April?" he whispered, suddenly realizing that he didn't want the attention of any of his family members.

He stepped out into the hallway which opened up to the main living space; one hand cupped lightly over the stump of his limb. The coolness of the hallway made him shiver. He wiped at the sheen of sweat on his brow, trying to remember which of the two spare rooms they'd set her up inside. He was sure Mikey had mentioned it to him. But his memories were a jumbled mess.

He stepped hastily to the room next to his lab. His body wavered and felt unbalanced with each step. Holding onto his left shoulder helped him center a bit as he moved forward. He came up to the door. He released his shoulder and gripped the handle, as he did, he leaned against the door; expecting it to open quietly, but found it locked.

Resting his forehead against the cool wood, he closed his eyes. "April?" he asked, leaning his cheek into the smooth panel, listening with his entire body rigid. He blew out a shaky breath. "It's me, Donnie. Can I . . . Can I come in?"

He waited. Nothing.

He glanced down and tried the knob again. Twisting it. Nothing.

"April, I . . . didn't mean it," he whispered. His hand dropped away. He peeled away from the door. Stood staring at it for a few minutes. The clock in the kitchen ticking abnormally loud in the quiet of the lair.

Slowly, he made his way back to his room.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woo! YUS! Another chance for me to write and update! When I'm a productive writer, I'm a happy writer.
> 
> I've used this song for inspiration before and it's just so achingly melancholic and full of his yearning, I just immediately pictured Donatello and it got me writing. So, hats off to Mr. Gray and his sick, sad music - LOL!


	13. The Light of Forgiveness

_"Forgiveness is an act of the will, and the will can function regardless of the temperature of the heart."-Corrie Ten Boom_

* * *

 

If he hoped that April would forgive him, he didn't show it. Couldn't if he wanted to. There was a block; a wall that he could not get around. Invisible. Solid. It sectioned him off from April, but also from the rest of his family.

And he found he didn't really care. Or at least, it's what he continued to tell himself.

There was a growing pool of chill at the base of his thoughts, at the firmament of his spirit. It kept him clear-minded and distant. Easier to accept the reality of a situation that had gone from bad to disaster in a matter of days. The fumbling of his family, the botching of his amputation, the pity that he sensed from April. He shuddered at the desk where he sat, rearranging slides; tapping the thin glass sheets gently with the back of his fingernail.

The anger at them had coalesced into a knot of hardened resentment. This icy granite at center of his body numbed him against the slow searing guilt that rolled over his words and behavior.

_Why should I be guilty? They're the ones who did this to me. Who reduced me to this._

Leonardo's face rose up in his mind. The cruel conversation he'd had with his brother last week echoed through his thoughts. The memory stretched and morphed as if he were looking through an inverted telescope. Remote. And still that curl of dark satisfaction twisted in his stomach when he remembered his brother's face. Broken with grief. As he should feel.

He pressed down upon a slide and it snapped in two.

He reached out and scratched at his stump.

Then there was April.

He paused, holding the residual limb in the cup of his palm, pressing the flesh to his side.

Every day spent pushing April away secured his sanctuary. That cotton-insulated space between his cold-blooded logic and his aching, warm-blooded heart. Where all sound of betrayal and hurt could be muted and dimmed. And he could stew in his own pain. Recovering, as he thought, in his own way, in his own time.

 _It's for the best_ , he thought with a morose nod to himself. After the other night, the way he'd treated her . . . He sighed through his nose and closed his eyes.  _Why doesn't she just go home? What more do I have to do to make her understand?_

When she spoke to him, he ignored her. When they passed in the hallway, he kept his eyes glued to the cement floor. And the pity he was sure he'd see in her eyes haunted him. Lingering in the back of his mind and reassuring him that it really was better not to make eye-contact. Really. The embers of resentment flared. His eyes snapped open and he scowled.

_Do I need more reminders that I'm a broken, useless, freak?_

A year ago, even a month ago, if he would've been told he'd be giving April the cold shoulder, he would have thought the person was insane. Now, broken and literally in pieces, he could barely stand to meet her eye in passing let alone speak to her or be in the same room as her.

 _She probably hates me_ , he thought, scratching again at the bandaged skin. He avoided any and all contact with her as much as possible.

And she avoided him.

 _So much for her friendship._ He ran a hand over his face and chuckled. Dark and abrupt. He dropped his hand to his lap.

"What do you expect to happen, genius? You push away the girl of your dreams, treat her like dirt, and you expect her to stay friends with you? Oh god. What is my problem," he asked as his head dropped between his shoulders. "I have to get past this."

He sat up and carefully pulled the microscope closer, avoiding the broken slide. He leaned forward and peered into the lens. His vision blurred and his mind refused to focus. The skin specimen danced before his eyes, telling him nothing. He sat back and rubbed his eye with the heel of his right hand.

"I can't concentrate like this," he muttered. He sat straighter, cleared his throat. "When you really think about it," he told himself, "it's just a limb."

He made an attempt at laughter. The sound of it feeble, and it died on the tip of his tongue.

Darker thoughts swirled in its wake.  _It's not like you were so great a ninja that it's going to be that noticeable. No one will probably even miss your lame-ass fighting, anyway_.  _Your mind is all you got left and you're losing it, Donnie-boy!_

The door creaked as it opened behind him, pulling him from the downward spiral of his thoughts.

"My son," Splinter said, following the soft pattering sound of his knuckles upon the doorframe. "How are you feeling this evening?"

Donatello turned his head but did not twist in his seat to look fully at his father. His right hand cupped the end of his residual limb, scratching lightly. Eyes downcast, but listening. Refusing to answer the silly question.

_How do I feel? I feel like I'm going crazy. Like I'm drowning. In quicksand. With weights tied to my ankles._

The bed creaked to his right and Donatello stiffened, realizing that this would not be the quick usual two-minute visit to check on his well-being as it had been nearly every day this past week. Cautiously, he turned himself to sit sideways in his chair.

Splinter spotted the equipment and his eyes twinkled with something mixed between enthusiasm and relief. "You are working on something, I see? May I ask what?"

His gaze fell on the bundled material in Splinter's lap. His eyes narrowed. Ignoring his sensei's inquiry, he snapped, "What is that?"

Splinter looked down as if surprised himself at what he held. He handled the bundle and a strap flopped over his knee.

"This is for you, my son. Raphael worked very hard on knitting this. It is to keep your," he faltered, blinking into the space between them as though he lost his train of thought, "your arm warm."

Donatello sat frozen, a stony glare carved into his features. "It's impossible for my arm to be cold when it isn't attached to my body," he said in a low voice.

Though phantom pain would occasionally awaken him in the night, bursting like flares across his vision, cramping the non-existent hand, and there were days with uncontrollable itching or tingling, but he would not tell Splinter this. He scratched more severely at his stump and winced.

He was being cruel again, but he couldn't stop himself. He wanted to be left in peace. He didn't want that stupid thing that Raphael knitted. Donatello frowned.

_Wait. Since when did Raphael knit?_

Splinter stood up. Setting the knit sock to one side. He closed the distance between them and moved around to Donatello's left side.

Donatello started as Splinter turned him in his seat. He took the stump into his paws.

"Don't!"

"Your bandages are loose. And need changing."

"I was . . . going to. I had to take a sample."

Splinter pulled back part of the loose bandaging and examined the raw, and in places, cracked skin beneath. His breath caught in a soft hiss.

His eyes shot up to meet Donatello's. "There is a rash."

Donatello slid back in his seat, trying and failing to free himself from his father's touch. His face colored as if he were caught in a lie.

"I-I know."

Splinter's expression hardened. "I was not in favor of allowing you to take full responsibility for your limb's care. I knew it would be too much. This is exactly what I was afraid of. I will resume care of it."

"N-No!"

Donatello shifted hard in his seat, raising his bottom up to slam back down. There was nowhere for his body to go. Trapped between the desk and Splinter. He jerked, twisting and covering his stump defensively. Splinter stubbornly kept his hold on him.

"No, Donatello. Do not fight me on this. I cannot risk another infection setting in."

"I can handle it, Sensei. I'm not . . . It's just . . . slight intertrigo." He tipped his head towards the microscope. "I was in the middle of testing to see the cause. If-if there are micro-organisms present."

Splinter frowned. Looking from the microscope back to his son's wound.

"Bacteria," Donatello clarified. "Plenty of that down here, right? Like you said, don't want  _another_  infection to set in," he said and his tone shifted to something sarcastic and biting. His eyes swept down to Splinter's hands on him then snapped back up to meet his father's gaze.

Splinter immediately released him. Freeing the end of his limb as if it had burned him. He stepped a half-step back.

Donatello stared up at him with an ugly expression. Accusing and full of resentment.

Splinter rubbed his paws against the front of his robe. He clasped his hands together to keep them from shaking.

"Donatello," he started, but again, he seemed to lose his train of thought. "I-I am sorry to interrupt your work. Do you need anything? Anyone to assist? I could ask April -"

" _No_!" Sharp. Cutting him off. "I can do this," he forced out, "on my own."

"Of course, my son. I meant only, because she has taken the time to –"

"I said, it's fine. And you should tell April to go home. I don't know why she's been hanging around here, anyway."

Splinter blinked at that.

"I don't need help."

"My son," he said and his words were followed by a heavy sigh. "I am worried about you."

Donatello hung his head.

Splinter reached out to touch him, but stopped half-way, looked at his clawed rat-fingers and froze. He returned to clasping his hands tightly together. He shook his head.

"We are here for you."

Donatello remained impassive. Unresponsive. Locked in his frigid, unforgiving, hostility.

Splinter tried harder. "There is no need to isolate yourself. The ones who love you wish only to help. My son. What are you afraid of? There is nothing to be ashamed of–"

Donatello started to laugh.

Splinter looked around, shocked into silence.

Donatello's shoulders shook and his upper body rocked forward as the chuckle rolled into something stronger. Bitter and mangled. Barking and rough.

"Oh, ohho.  _Ahahaha_ , yeah. I'm sure that's something you tell yourself every night."

As the last words fell from his lips, his eyes grew to circles. The laughter died instantly.

_What did I just . . . oh no._

But he could not retract what had been spilled, like a festering wound gusting outwards once the scab was cracked. It erupted from him. His face lifted. Mouth dropping open to form an apology, sputtering, gasping for a breath.

The aged hand shot out and cut across between them. Meeting Donatello's flesh in a firm, sharp crack.

His head jolted to one side. His body lurched from the impact. His elbow knocked into the microscope and slides, scattering them. They fell to the floor in a jangling, crashing, shattering pile.

Donatello fell off his chair. His legs got tangled in the legs of the chair and it tipped. It crashed to the floor. He reeled and scrambled. Flopping as he struggled with the imbalance that his missing limb brought. Legs kicking as he finally sat up and scooted backwards with his heels until his shell hit his bed. His palm cupping his burning face. His eyes overflowing with tears.

He blinked to clear his vision to see Splinter standing over him. Looming with teeth bared and eyes flashing.

Behind him, concerned voices rose up. Donatello saw from the corner of his eye, Mikey, Raphael and Leonardo tumbling into his room. Calling out in shock and worry. Wondering what had happened. Each falling silent as they took in Splinter's pose. The tension in the air.

"What happened? Let me get to him!" April shoved against Mikey and knocked Raphael aside with an elbow. She came to a halt inside the room, just in front of his stunned brothers. Her face shot from Donatello on the floor, still cupping his throbbing cheek, and dropping his eyes from hers, to Splinter who remained stiff and rooted by fury and helplessness.

"What did you do? How could you –"

She rushed forward. Leonardo grabbed her elbow. She twisted and yanked her arm from his hand, glaring at him with a look that had him raising his hands in surrender.

She dashed around Splinter and fell to her knees next to Donatello. "Donnie? Oh my god. What happened? Are you okay?" Her fingers glided over his knee, up to his shoulder, his stump. Her breath caught in her throat as she took in the oozing rash, the darkening bruise on his face. She spun on her bottom.

"How could you do such a thing to him!?" Her voice rose and cracked, shrill with outrage.

Splinter closed his eyes. His shoulders slumped and his paws uncurled. He shrunk into himself beneath her furious glare.

"I deserved it," Donnie mumbled.

She spun back to him. " _What?_  How can you say that?" She moved to embrace him, protectively.

He shrugged from her grasp. Shaking his head. Meeting her expression of hurt with an aggressive look. "Leave me alone."

His eyes were glassy and hard. Face pink. His left cheek reddened and swollen. He shifted to sit on his knees. When she didn't move, he frowned. She reached for him again.

"Didn't you  _hear me?!_ Get out of _here! Go away! Leave me alone!"_  he roared.

April let out a small squeak. She fell back onto her bottom.

"Dude, don't yell at her!" Mikey hollered. He appeared behind April and helped her to her feet. He brought one arm around protectively around the front of her body. His face was a mottled green, freckles standing out, the most furious Donatello had ever seen his little brother.

His mouth snapped shut and he diverted his gaze. Sweeping it to the wall, locking on a crack in one brick.

"She just wanted to make sure you were okay."

"Just leave me alone," he grumbled, voice tight, not looking at anyone.

Splinter cleared his throat. "Leonardo," he said. "Get your brother an ice pack. The rest of you, come along. Leave your brother to rest."

The group shuffled out in stony silence. A moment of silence fell, ringing in his ears like a howling wind. Donatello could feel his father's eyes boring into him. He willed him to go away and leave him to his humiliation and pain. His head pounded. His cheek burned and throbbed, and his stump at turns, ached and itched.

In a quiet voice, Splinter said, "I accept full responsibility for what has happened to you, my son. And I  _am_  ashamed. Ashamed of my failure to you. The failure of the initial amputation."

Donatello closed his eyes. Tears burned and one slid down his aching cheek.

_I don't care._

"It was my fault. All of it. I was frightened. More frightened than I've ever been. And I did everything I knew just to keep you alive."

_I don't want to hear this._

"But my stupidity . . . my ignorance."

_Please stop._

"I am not as intelligent as you, my son. Not as skilled. And I am not," Splinter voice caught and Donatello felt the lump tighten in his throat, "able to get my family the medical care you need and deserve. But I have done all I can. Tried as well as I am able to care for you."

_I know. It's not your fault. It's my fault. For being stupid. For not having a plan._

"It is my deep shame that my mutated state only serves to hurt the ones I love. These hands," his voice cracked and broke.

Donatello's eyes pinched tightly closed. His chest heaved as his breath hitched in his throat.

_It's not your fault we live where we do. How we do. It's not your fault._

"My son," Splinter said, voice thick with emotion. "I'm so sorry. You are right to blame me."

_No._

"To hate me."

_Father._

"I'm sorry for hurting you, my son. I would exchange my arm, my leg, my  _life_  if I could fix this for you. Give you back what was taken." His voice grew thin and fragile. Hopeless.  _"But I cannot. I can-"_

_It's okay._

A strangled sound erupted from the back of Donatello's throat. He twisted and fell forward just as Splinter stooped to catch him in his arms.

The sobbing burst from his chest. Violent and raw. In coughing, gasping jags, Donatello let it go. The pain. The anger and sorrow. He was a dam breached. He was a bridge broken beneath the weight of his anguish. He couldn't keep it in if he had tried. The apologies, the choked half-formed words, rolled from him like a clotted fog, in fits and starts.

All the while Splinter stroked his head, held him and rocked him gently.

Leonardo stood in the doorway, tears welling in his eyes, the bag of ice freezing his hands. He trembled, but not from the cold. The scene before him filling him with the tantalizing warmth of hope.

The promise of healing. Of forgiveness to come.

 


	14. One Step Forward

**CHAPTER 14 - One Step Forward**

* * *

Raphael turned in his seat, twisting where he sat on the edge of the couch cushion as April hurried across the room. He jumped up when he spotted the large bag slung over one shoulder, tucked under her arm.

"Hey," he said. His voice was steady in spite of the rabid butterflies battling to the death in his stomach.

She glanced at him and kept moving. Towards the lair's exit.

"Whoa, April," he called out and quickened his pace. He caught up to her as she slipped through the turnstiles. He leaped over them and dashed around to skip backwards in front of her. Hands up, he asked, "Where are you going?"

He didn't mean it to come out as accusingly as it did, but it was too late. He didn't blame her for wanting out. That scene back there was enough to turn even his stomach. Donatello screaming at her, the expression of pure disgust on his face . . .

Whatever demons Donatello was struggling with were getting an upper hand. She couldn't bail now, not when they needed her the most. And yet . . . He took in the puffed flesh around her red-rimmed eyes and gulped.

_Oh shit._

"April, listen. Listen, will ya? You know it's not him, April. His arm . . . the pain . . . He-He can't help it. Hell, I would be pissed, too if –"

She cut him off with a wave of her hand. "You want to know where I'm going?"

He clamped his mouth shut as his eyes bounced between hers. Fury was etched in taunt lines around her mouth; between her brows. Dark shadows marred the underside of her luminous eyes. For half a second he noticed just how pretty this girl could be, even when super stressed and over-tired.

Donnie was a lucky guy. If he'd get his head outta his ass and stop acting like a total jerk to her. But first things had to settle down a bit – Donnie needed to heal. Problem was, the way he saw it, the best chance of that happening was if she stuck around and weathered the storm. He was sure his brother would come back to himself. He just needed something . . . A distraction.

"I'm going home," she snapped, moving around him as she adjusted the strap on her shoulder. Stomping her feet as she went. "If that's okay with you. I need to check on my dad. And Casey."

Raph chewed the inside of his cheek. He hopped on one foot, turning. He hurried alongside her. "Mind if I come along?"

Whether it was the soft tone he'd used or the look on his face that made her pause, he wasn't sure. But she cast a furtive glance over one shoulder then met his eyes for an instant before dropping them away and giving him a brief nod.

The relief he felt was monumental. Progress.

_She's not so pissed as to tell me to sod off._

He really needed to stop watching all those late-night British comedies with Mikey. As if by extra-sensory ability, his brother suddenly appeared between them.

"I'm comin', too!" Mikey said. And it wasn't a question.

Raph shook his head, "Now's not a good time, Mikey." He needed to think of a way to get her to come back and put up with Donatello's unpleasant behavior just a bit longer. "Why don't you go –"

But April reached out and gripped the youngest of the brother's hand in hers. She squeezed it and knocked it against her hip. "I'd like that, Mikey. Very much."

Raph snapped his mouth shut. He shrugged. And though a part of him felt guilty for leaving Leonardo home with Master Splinter and Donatello to deal with the emotional fallout and the ongoing stress of the situation, he was happy to be getting away. The atmosphere in the lair had continued to grow more and more oppressive. He needed out. And maybe it would be good for Mikey, too.

Maybe they all just needed a little breather to figure this thing out.

# # #

They moved through the tunnels, no one spoke. Each lost in their own musings. The sound of their footsteps echoed with a hollow tap-tap-tapping, interrupted by the occasional splish-splash of Mikey stepping through a puddle.

Raph glanced at his friend. She stared at the ground just before her feet with glazed eyes. He swallowed. Wondered if the scene he'd witnessed in Donatello's room had finally been the breaking point for April.

Donatello was broken. But it didn't have to be this way. Not forever. He was sure that April held the key to making things back to normal again. Well, as close to normal as possible.

The exit appeared just as Raphael was building the courage to address his fears. She quickly climbed the ladder, following Mikey and disappeared out the opening. He clambered after them.

The dark street was deserted and her apartment building rose up on the corner as they darted across to duck behind some shrubs. April made straight for the front door. She entered and two shadows followed. Unseen.

They took the stairs to the second floor. They moved several steps down the hall when suddenly April stopped. Up ahead, the front door of her apartment was ajar.

An angry voice, muffled, but distinctly male came down the corridor. A string of curse words erupted only to be cut off, followed by a resounding thump that rumbled along the wall down to where they stood. It sounded as though someone was trying to unsuccessfully crash through.

That, or someone was being thrown against it.

"Whoa," Mikey said softly.

"Oh no," April moaned and hurried forward. "Oh please, no. I can't deal with this. Not now!"

Raph shot a questioning look at Mikey and ran after her.

"Dad?!" April cried out in the doorway and shoved at the door. It opened only a few inches more then stopped, blocked by something on the other side. "Casey? Dad?!" She flung her bag down and pressed her weight into the door, but it wouldn't move. Her voice rose and cracked, "Dad?!"

Raph took April by her upper arms and gently, but firmly, lifted her off her feet and moved her aside. He leaned back, raised his leg, thick muscles coiled, and push-kicked the door. The force had the door barreling through the unseen obstacle. It slammed and cracked, hanging crookedly onto the frame by only the bottom hinge.

Without a word, Raph rushed inside; Mikey on his heels; eyes wide and chucks out.

April dashed into the room to find it in chaos. The furniture was overturned and some of it was in pieces; scattered all over the bunched up rugs. She ran her hands through her hair on either side of her head.

"Oh my god, what happened?"

She heard Raph holler something to Mikey from the other room. There was an indistinct crackle that sounded an awful lot like one of the Kraang bots. She took a step towards the sound of fighting when she stopped.

Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted a figure in a heap to the right. The young man's face was obscured by one arm slung over his head. His dark hair mussed. She couldn't tell from where she stood whether or not he was breathing.

"Casey!?"

He didn't move.

She vaulted over and between the furniture and knelt by him. He groaned as she moved his arm. His eye was blackened and swollen and a trickle of crimson ran down his chin from the corner of his mouth. Her breath caught in her throat. Her stomach sank.

This was all her fault. Her father did this to him. How could she live with herself after this?

She reached down and pressed her fingertips to the side of his throat. His pulse flickered beneath her touch. Her hand moved to his cheek.

"Casey?" she asked, softly.

"'M okay," he said thickly and turned his head. "'M fine." His eyes opened and rolled.

She sat back on her heels. "Oh god," she said and leaned forward. She brushed some plaster from his shoulder and hair. It stood up in clumps that she tried to smooth a bit. Her fingers came away wet. She glanced down to find them red.

He groaned and batted weakly at her hands. "Said I'm fine," he mumbled.

"You're not fine, Casey!" she squeaked. "You're bleeding!"

He moved to push up from the floor. His head hung low between his shoulders and he made a soft strangled sound as though he were about to be sick.

She hovered over him, placing her hands lightly upon his shoulders. "Easy," she said. "Don't try to move too fast."

"Movin' fast, is what I'm good at," he quipped and shot her a semi-playful grin over his shoulder. A second later, he wavered to one side and slumped heavily against the wall. A shower of tiny bits of plaster rained down on him. "I'm sorry," he whispered.

"No," she inched closer on her knees. "There's nothing to apologize for, Casey. I should be the one apologizing to you, leaving you here, when I knew . . . when I knew what could happen. But still, I . . . How can I ever—"

He shook his head from side to side and then folded his long legs underneath him. She reached out and helped him to sit up.

Just as he did, another crash erupted from the kitchen. April spun on her bottom. Mouth hanging open in terror and confusion. She jumped as she felt Casey's hand on her arm. She twisted around. His eyes were open and gleaming with an intensity that deepened her fright.

"Your dad," he said, "he's hiding in the bathroom."

She started to shake her head uncomprehendingly when Raphael's voice boomed from the end of the hallway. "Hey, Casey, I thought I told you to invite me next time you were going to have this kind of party." There was a clang and then a sound like something mechanical hitting the linoleum floor.

"Wh-What is going on?" April asked as she rose up to stand.

Casey looked up at her. He ran his tongue across his slightly swollen bottom lip. He grimaced when it touched the line of blood and he wiped it with the back of his hand. He took in a shuddering breath, looking again as if he were about to be sick.

Before Casey answered, Raph entered the living room with Mikey just behind him. Between them, a Kraang body hung, supported under the arms and by the heels by the two brothers.

Mikey grinned. "Don't worry, April, pinky went out the window."

"Actually, it flew out the window and went splat against the neighbor's bricks," Raph clarified. "I pitched and Mikey was up to bat." He winked and Mikey laughed.

"Hee."

April was speechless.

"Your dad and I went out for something to eat," Casey said.

She turned to look at him.

He sat forward and groaned, gently dabbing at the back of his head and grimacing at the blood he found. Casey glanced up. He paused at her look and ducked his head. "Aw, c'mon, April. It'd been days since either of us got out. I was careful. Your dad had been great. Trust me. It was totally safe."

"Totally," April snapped and bobbed her head in the general direction of her home and the Kraang droid the turtles were still holding.

Casey shrugged. "Gotta learn to listen to my instincts better. I thought I felt someone watchin' us as we headed back. But I thought I was just being, you know, paranoid."

"Why were they following you?"

He shrugged again, but this time winced and rubbed his shoulder. "Ugh, I dunno. Maybe 'cuz your dad was acting a little off."

Her eyes grew wide. Her face paled making her freckles stand out.

He raised his hands up. "Don't worry, no one saw us. Er, uh, almost no one. No one human," he amended. "He was great until we got down Laird Avenue, then he got a little, um, erratic."

"Laird," Raph said with a frown. "Wait, that's . . ."

"That's where they attacked us, the first time," April said. She ran two hands over the top of her head, held her hair back and then dropped her arms down. "Casey," she moaned, drawing out his name.

Casey's face dropped. "Oh, snap. I didn't know. Look, I took that way back 'cuz I figured it's usually a pretty deserted street. I didn't know." He stared up at her, looking sincerely full of regret, "I-I'm really sorry, April."

"Hey, man, you didn't know," Raph said before April could reply.

"I wouldn't have gone that way if I thought there'd be any chance that it would upset Mr. O'Neil or-or . . ." He lifted his hand and indicated the deactivated Kraang bot between Raph and Mikey. He covered his face with his hand and shook his head before he dropped it to his lap.

"God. I'm so stupid."

"You couldn't have known," she said. She climbed around the over-turned love seat, asking over her shoulder, "Dad's in the bathroom?"

Casey nodded. "He got pretty scared and I didn't want him to get hurt. Actually, he was trying to fight the thing before I corralled him into the bathroom."

"Dad?" April called and there was a muffled reply.

Casey looked at Raph and Mikey. "I'd get that outta here. Uh, before he sees it. He went a little nuts when it first came in through the window."

Raph hoisted his end and together he and Mikey maneuvered through the wreckage. They set it down just in the hallway and returned. Raph helped Casey to stand, clamping his hand onto his friend's and hoisting him to his feet. He leaned back, took in the state of Casey's head and whistled.

"That was you hitting the wall wasn't it?"

Casey squinted. "I think so," he ran a hand through his hair and cringed. "Fight's sort of a blur. But I got in a few hits before the thing grabbed my ankle." He kicked at a splintered handle of a hockey stick. He sighed, then followed Raphael's train of sight.

"Huh, I guess that was me," he added as he took in the distinctly teenaged-boy imprint in the living room wall. "Yikes."

"You sure nothin's broken?"

Casey cocked a brow and gently patted himself down. "I think I'm good. Pretty sore. And my head's throbbin' like hell."

"You sure you're okay? You look greener than Raph right now."

April came into the room and leaned against the entryway. She closed her eyes and took in a breath. Then blew it out, slowly.

"Your dad okay, April?" Mikey asked.

She nodded. "Yeah, he is. Thanks. Thank you, Casey. For keeping him safe."

He breathed out a laugh, a half-smile on his face. "W-Well, yeah. No problem. I mean, uh, that's why I was here, right? Just, uh, just doing my job."

April gave him a warm smile that had him shifting his feet.

Raph noted his friend's color had returned to normal, highlighted with two pink spots on his cheeks. He frowned; cleared his throat. An idea struck him. It was the perfect opportunity.

"I think we should get Mister O'Neil down to the lair. Just for a few weeks. You know, until the heat's off."

"What?" April and Casey said in unison.

Mikey looked at his brother for a long time. Raph's eyes met his, then swept to the floor. "You know, the Kraang spotted him and who knows if this one reported back or whatever. I think it's for the best."

"I think getting my father back to a normal routine would be what's best, Raph."

"Yeah, Raph. Do you really think moving Mr. O'Neil is a good idea? The guy's freaking out as it is," Mikey said.

Raph shrugged. "I'm just saying. The Kraang are pretty relentless. And I think," he crossed his arms, "he'd be safer with us for a while."

April looked torn. She rubbed her hands together and laced her fingers.

Mikey narrowed his eyes, thinking. Never allowing his gaze to wander from his brother.

Raph continued to stare at the floor in front of April. But he could feel the unspoken questions coming off of Mikey in waves. Well, he'd know that it was for the best soon enough. He'd explain his plan to Mikey later. That a little discomfort on Mr. O'Neil's part would be worth it, if it got April back to the lair and around Donnie again. Besides, it wasn't a lie that they could protect him.

Casey rubbed his palms against the front of his rumpled shirt. "I think he's right, April. And I'll come, too."

Raph's head snapped up. "What?"

"What about school?" April asked, concern lacing her words.

"Yeah, uh, you can't," Raph started.

Mikey's face darted between Raph and Casey.

"Nah, it's fine. I'll walk from the lair. Hey, we can go together. I'll be your, uh, you know, protection." He grinned sheepishly, the color deepening on his cheeks. Raph scowled. Casey then turned serious, "So, can I?"

His Adam's apple bobbed as he looked from each person standing around him. His eyes fearful.

"What about your Dad?" Raph said and he could've sworn that Casey's already pale face turned ashen.

The boy just ducked his head and gave it a slight shake. April, for some reason, seemed to suddenly soften towards him. Raph's face bounced between them. The back of his neck heated. He did not care for that tender expression April was giving Casey just then. A muscle in his jaw jumped.

Raph opened his mouth to protest the idea further when Mikey reached out and placed a hand on the boy's shoulder and said, "Yeah, bro, sounds cool."

Casey looked physically relieved.

Raph blinked and frowned. "Mikey, I don't think –"

"You can bunk with me."

April blew out a breath. "I guess, if you guys are okay with us invading the lair . . . again. Let me pack a few things for my dad," April said, turning away with a shake of her head.

"Thanks, Mikey," Casey said quietly. "I appreciate it. More than you know."

Raph pressed his mouth into a tight line. He glanced to make sure April was out of the room, then to Mikey he said, "Go get that bot's legs Mikey, I'll be there in a minute."

Mikey stared into his eyes and said, "Friends watch out for one another, bro."

Raph said tersely, "Yeah, yeah. Just get going."

Mikey saluted and giving Casey one last, sparkling grin, hopped over the mess and headed out the door.

Raph turned a hard gaze on Casey. He glanced again over his shoulder to be sure that April was out of ear shot. When he was satisfied, he turned his green gaze back to Casey. "Look man, I'm happy to help you out, but you gotta get something straight, right now."

Casey blinked.

"My brother is going through a rough time right now. A really rough time," he emphasized. "The last thing he needs is more stress."

Casey continued to stare blankly at him.

"If I catch you irritating him, causing him any grief, in any way, there's going to be a problem between us. A serious problem. You understand what I'm telling you?"

"Uh, s-sure, man. I don't want any trouble. Not with Donatello. Or with any of you guys."

Raph continued to stare at him, then after a tense minute, nodded. "Okay. So long as we're straight."

"You're my friends, Raph," Casey said as the two of them turned towards the door. He stepped across the rug and upturned sofa out the door, limping slightly.

"The only friends I've got," he added softly, nearly too soft for Raph to have heard. But he did.

Raph paused mid-step, watching Casey go.

He didn't like this. Friends or not, this was trouble. A blind person could see that Casey felt something for April. And he wasn't exactly sure about her feelings. His thoughts went back to that sort of melt-y expression she got when she looked at Casey a minute ago. His stomach curdled and he felt strangely chilled.

But there was nothing he could do about it. Casey promised no harm would come. And yet, Raph worried. This wasn't what he'd had in mind when he came up with the idea to use the Kraang attack as leverage to get April back down to the lair with Donnie. But Donatello seemed to be losing himself. He had to do something.

He sighed. Well, at least he'd be bringing his brother home a little gift. Something to get his mind off things. Something he enjoyed doing. Working. Inventing. He'd have a field day with this thing.

And maybe, just maybe, they could use the parts to make Donatello a prosthetic arm. He was going to suggest it tomorrow morning when things settled down a bit in the lair. Maybe in the morning Donatello would feel better. He hoped that Master Splinter had gotten him to calm down. He shook his head.

"We'll see."

As far as Casey coming down to stay for a while . . .

"Nothing I can do, but keep an eye on things," he said to himself, convincing himself that he had it under control. In fact, it would be nice to have someone other than his chuckle-head of a baby brother and the stuck-up Fearless to hang with at the lair.

Behind him, he heard April coaxing her dad out of his room. He stepped into the hallway and gripped the robot under the arms, grunting from the weight of it as he straightened up.

Casey pushed off the wall where he was leaning, waiting for them. "What are you going to do with that thing?"

"Something useful, I hope," Raph said. Adding, "And give my brother something besides his missing arm to think about."

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh man, I'm really sorry about the long wait for updates. Real Life has been a challenge, between a particularly hard class which required me to intern pretty much every free day I had and the death of my beloved mastiff/mix, Thunder, (he was 13), yeah, it's been rough. But my life is evening out and the return of some free time for me to write is something I desperately look forward to!
> 
> Thank you for your patience. I will be working hard at getting my other stories updated immediately for your enjoyment.


	15. Two Steps Back

"Speak when you are angry and you will make the best speech you will ever regret." -Ambrose Bierce

* * *

Leonardo heard them entering the lair. He'd been on his way to the dojo after setting the small bag of ice for Donatello's cheek on the desk inside his brother's room. He hadn't wanted to interrupt the raw emotional scene playing out between father and son before him, so he'd slipped away as quietly as possible; doing his best to ignore the feelings of being left out. Isolated with his coiling guilt and lingering shame.

"Oy! Leo, get your shell over here," Raphael called gruffly.

Leo moved hesitantly across the room. His frown deepening as he caught the bright gleam of metal. His breath caught in his throat as he spotted the bot being hoisted over the turnstiles between Mikey and Raph. A Kraang bot being brought into the lair.

_What the hell?_

His footsteps faltered as he half-turned, eyes darting to the closed door of Donatello's room. His mouth opened only to snap shut. The instant of his longing to call for his brother's insight killed off by the reality of the circumstances.

A grim realization hit him. How many times in the future will he turn to consult his intelligent brother, only to find the space empty? He steeled himself against the maudlin thought.

Donatello would get through this. Somehow. He would. And it would be the same as it always was – he had to believe it. He had to. Otherwise, the loss of a teammate, the loss of his brother as an active member of their clan, was on him. Entirely.

"Mikey, no, just move it over a little. Hold it up, will ya?" Raph barked as he struggled with the heavier end. "Christ, Mikey, can you just hold it up?!"

"Yeah. It-It's good. Keep it comin'. There's room if you'd just, hold on . . ." Mikey said, out of breath, and then huffed in frustration as one of the legs caught in the metal bars.

Metal against metal screeched as Raph shoved.

"Wait, wait, _wait_!"

"Dammit, Mikey!"

Behind them, April offered advice in a low steady stream while her father cast about with nervous eyes, huddled near April with his arms full of a plastic bag and a rolled up sleeping blanket. His lips moved but if he was speaking, it was too low to hear above the commotion. He shook his head and closed his eyes before returning to his darting glances and muttering.

"I know it's heavy, but I think if you'd just lift the back end a little, where the shoulder blades are while Michelangelo raises the legs by the ankle, it would make more sense considering the height of these columns," she rambled on.

"Just get it through, will ya!?" Raph hollered at Mikey and dug his heels in. His muscular shoulders bunched and trembled as he shoved.

Mikey yelped as he struggled, "Not yet! Ow! My finger! Stop, Raph!"

Casey laughed and shook his head at their antics. Then immediately winced as he tentatively moved one hand to his temple and the other to his side. That wasn't the best idea. He felt a wave of nausea with the motion.

"Oh man, I think I might have a bruised rib, and maybe a cracked skull," he mumbled, but unable to pass up the ripe opportunity to torment his hot-headed friend, said to Raph, "Pivot it a little, Raph. C'mon, it ain't _that_ heavy."

Raphael gave both his friends an aggravated glare over one shoulder. First, to April then to Casey who pursed his swollen lip and shrugged.

"Really, can't be that hard." Casey mimicked picking something off the ground, "Use your legs. I know they're stubby, but you gotta have some muscle in there with all the trainin' you guys do."

"What is this?" Leo hissed, coming up behind Michelangelo, stopping short with arms held out.

The group paused for a moment, then continued on just as before. Leo's mouth dropped open. Indignant for being slighted in this manner. The feeling of being left out, a sort of jealous, sorrowful twinge at the bottom of his heart, nagged him once more.

Raphael gave a soft snort of exertion and adjusted his hold on the robot's torso. "You know what would be really helpful, pal," he grunted at Casey, spreading his stance for more leverage, "is if you'd shut the hell up and let me get this."

Casey brushed off his comment. He scrambled clumsily over the shortened columns. Dizzy from the movement. He swayed and righted himself. He stepped closer to inspect the problem from Mikey's angle. Ignoring the way his head ached and his side continued to send sharp spikes of pain through his middle.

Mikey held up his swollen, throbbing finger crushed by Raph's brute insistence with the bot. Casey shook his head in sympathy. "Yowch."

April continued on with her suggestions as to how to go about getting the robot shell into the lair, oblivious or in spite of Raphael's ire.

He snorted again. He was getting close to dropping the damn thing and letting the rest of them figure out how to get the heavy as hell thing over the entranceway. He'd done enough by dragging it down here in the first place. Leo and Splinter and the rest of them could take it from here. Tempted though he was, a small part of him insisted that he had to complete the task.

How else would Donatello know it was all his idea? He wanted to be the one to show his brother the prize he'd brought him. And a quieter space, small and well-guarded, in the very back of his mind was filled with a tender hope, that perhaps, it would be enough to earn him forgiveness for his part in this nightmare.

"Casey, what happened to you?" Leo gasped from the side, noticing only now, the damage his friend sported.

"Hey, Leo," Casey turned and waved as if he weren't bleeding from the back of his head and covered in darkening bruises over his arms and face. The boy turned to Mikey who was propping both large feet on either side of the bot, yanking on the shin.

"Nah, man, you're only getting it stuck worse," Casey leaned over Mikey's bent form as he moved his hands up and wrestled with the robot's locked knee.

Something slipped. A gear groaned and squealed.

"I got it," Mikey said. He leaned back and tugged on it until it snapped loose; rising up until the toe pointed to the ceiling only to drop down with a clang. It clocked him on top of his head.

He howled and rolled away, holding his head with both hands. "Ow, ow, ow!" He hissed a breath, then, "Oh, my noggin!"

"Raph," Leo moved around Mikey rocking on the floor to stand next to Casey, "you wanna explain what's going on?" He indicated Casey with one palm. "What happened?"

He huffed and ground his teeth together, "Sure, bro. I'll be happy to tell ya all about it. But first, how 'bout you givin' me a hand here before I have a hernia."

Casey covered his eyes and threw back his head to guffaw. His laughter was cut short with another yip of pain, followed by a groan. "Ugh, don't make me laugh. Ouch, fuck that hurts." He leaned forward and braced his hands on his knees. "I, urgh, I might be sick, in a minute. I dunno. I think . . . yeah, it's passing. I'm good." He straightened up and gave Leo a wavering grin. "I'm fine."

Leo blinked in astonishment and dismay. From the corner of his eye, he noticed April and behind her, her father. He did a double take. "Mr. O'Neil," he said and looked from the man to April. The questions clear on his face.

She shrugged. "Is this okay, Leo?" She indicated the pile in her father's arms.

At a loss, Leo stood there frozen in place.

The robot crashed to the floor as Raphael dropped it. He wiped his hands together, then braced his thumbs and fingers on his hips.

Mikey glanced up from where he sat, still hunched over, rubbing his head.

Raph said, "He's come to stay with us for a while. Him and April."

Leo's face shot to his brother. "What? Why? I don't think I really need to explain to you why this isn't the best time, _Raph_." He motioned vaguely behind his body towards Donatello's room.

Raph crossed his arms. "Yeah, well. I understand that, _Leo_. Perfectly." He stared at Leo with some hostility. "But it's in the best interest of everyone." At Leo's uncomprehending look, he added, "They were attacked at the apartment."

He didn't need to explain that he also wanted April back in the lair, close to Donatello, in order to help his brother heal. If Leonardo couldn't see that was what their brother needed more than anything else, he was blind.

"What?" Leo looked again to April and Mr. O'Neil, eyes wide, assessing them for injury. He rushed closer to the turnstiles for a better look. "April, Mr. O'Neil. Are you okay? Do you need –" he choked on the rest of the question.

His stomach knotted as April looked to him. Her expression full of gentle understanding.

But how could she know? How could she grasp the immediate feeling he had of suddenly being plunged into darkness from the highest peak? Of being shoved, helpless and flailing into the void?

He suddenly had no idea what to offer her or her father or anyone; coming up against a blank wall in his mind. His thoughts scattered. He was at a standstill. Mouth half-open like a fool.

Maybe he'd always been just that. A fool playing at being a hero.

It would have been Donatello that would've looked at them had they needed medical assistance. It would have been his gentle, confident brother that would've come along, calm and reassuring, astutely assessing their injuries, making note of what was needed to get them all healing as soon as possible. It would've been Donatello who'd have softly spoken answers to panicked questions.

Answers Leo didn't know. Whether or not tendons were torn, arteries severed, internal bleeding, bones fractured, the list went on and on.

_How can I do this? I can't do this without him. I need Donnie._

Leo glanced over his shoulder to his brother's room where Splinter had not yet surfaced. The absence of his brother like a blow in that instant. Panic seized him. He swayed where he stood, righting himself with a palm against the stone column.

He started as Casey put a clammy hand on his shoulder. Leo noted that the boy's fingertips were stained with blood. And his clothes and hair disheveled. His eyes were red-rimmed, sunk in and circled. Bottom lip swollen and protruding slightly.

"There was only the one," Casey said, voice serious, with a deep exhale as he motioned to the robot wedged between the columns of their entranceway. "I was stupid. I didn't pay attention. It followed us and then ambushed me and April's dad at the O'Neil's apartment. If Raph and Mikey hadn't shown . . ." he lowered his hand and ducked his head. "I'm sorry."

"Casey," April spoke up softly, but firmly. All faces except one, turned in her direction.

"You don't have anything to apologize for. You fought your best to protect my father."

Raphael stilled, listening hard, face down. Her tone took on the same melting feel that he'd gotten from her eyes back at the apartment when she spoke to the boy.

"I can't ever thank you enough. For being so brave. Risking your life. You came through for me. I won't forget it."

Casey huffed a nervous laugh and shifted his feet, face pink behind the bruising. "Well, yeah. Uh. Heh, yeah." He cleared his throat and gave her a tremulous grin before he decided the toes of his sneakers were far more interesting than maintaining eye contact.

Raph cocked a brow, feeling his chest pinch with irritation. Though he remained facing Leo, his eyes darted to one side, eyeing her body language and expression with suspicion. Red flags flared.

He coughed, rough and loud. Disturbing the atmosphere before it got any more warm and cozy. More than anything, he wished that Casey would just get home. Where he belonged.

"Uh, so we thought Mr. O'Neil and, uh, April could come down and stay for a while," Casey said, looking up briefly to Leo before dropping his gaze once again. He quickly added under his breath, beneath a loose fist, hidden under a cough, "Erm, and me."

Leo's face dropped into a frown, processing what April had said, as well as what Casey had told him. He blew out a breath and steadied himself. Order filled his mind and with it, calm. The blank wall in his reasoning dissolved and he took control. He raised his face. Squared his shoulders.

But when his eyes fixed on Raph, he felt a wave of anger.

He growled, jabbing his finger at the Kraang bot, "Get that out of here. Now."

Raph's expression hardened, but then, as if he took a moment to compose himself, he said, "Don't be hasty, bro. I've got an idea."

"I don't care."

Raph stiffened. "Hear me out, bro."

"No. I want it gone. Do you understand me? Gone. Now."

Raph winced at his brother's tone, blinking with momentary hurt for being so hastily brushed off. His idea dismissed. Then his jaw went rigid as the walls went up between them. He said nothing, but made no move to do as he was so rudely commanded.

"Leo," April started, sensing the tension between the brothers, abnormally exacerbated by the additional tension which hung about the lair like a sick malaise. Leo, in particular, seemed off-kilter and not his usual calm self.

But Leo cut her off.

"No, April, stay out of this," he growled, surprised by the anger behind his response. He caught himself with a quick glance at Mr. O'Neil who seemed to be getting upset at the stressful atmosphere building around them. Softening his tone, fidgeting in place slightly, he said, "Look, why don't you get your dad settled where you were sleeping, okay?"

She looked as though she were about to argue, but then Casey said, "Leo's right, April. Your dad's had a rough night. Let's get him settled in."

She glanced at her dad who gave her a weak smile. "I'm fine, honey. Honest I am. I feel fine. Why are we in the sewers?"

Her eyelids fluttered. Her expression remained neutral, but her voice wavered at the edges. "Dad, remember, I said as we came down. We're going to spend a little time visiting our friends. Remember?" she prodded gently and took him by the elbow. Placing her palm against his upper arm and tipping her head to one side.

Mr. O'Neil patted her hand and smiled at her. "Oh yes, I remember. That sounds nice. A little vacation, you said."

She nodded, unable to find her voice, the lump in her throat prevented her from speaking.

"Okay, honey. Let's have a vacation. Here. In the sewers," he added, looking and sounding suddenly unsure.

Leo nodded to April as she turned to him. Her face a mix of relief and sadness. "We'll get your father situated. Casey," Leonardo started, raising his head to look at the boy standing next to him, "I think you should go sit down. Your eyes are dilated and I think from the wound on the back of your head, you may have a concussion."

This he knew how to treat. The calm turned to confidence. He could do this. He could act while his brother took the time he needed to heal. He could keep his family together, functioning, as they were meant to. Whole.

He just needed to lose the animosity stirring inside his gut whenever he looked at Raphael. He had to move past the petty, hurtful squabbles they'd gotten into ever since this situation had dropped upon their happy home. The game of point-and-blame had to end.

He turned to Mikey, "The first aid kit under the sink, Mikey. Get it out and the other ice pace. I want you to look at Casey's head. See if he needs stitches."

Casey suddenly looked anxious. "Er, can he, uh, I mean," he turned to Mikey, who remained on the floor. "No offense, Mikey. But, I dunno if I want you givin' me stitches. I mean, can you even do that?"

Mikey rose up in a fluid motion, forgetting his pain. A reassuring grin spread across his face. "Relax, dude. I am a steady hand. Well versed in all things medicine-nally inclined."

After a moment, he added with a glance to Donatello's room, "I learned from the best, man. The absolute best."

The group fell into an awkward silence before Mikey broke the stillness as he hurried to the kitchen.

April straightened. "Come on, Dad."

She coaxed her father through the turnstile not currently blocked by the Kraang bot's twisted body. They squeezed through; first April, then her father, leading him by the elbow; his eyes still darted about, searching for something hidden in the shadowy corners of the lair's ceiling. Twitching a little with every other step. Muttering again under his breath.

Casey moved alongside the father and daughter, taking with gentle motions, the bundle of bags from Mr. O'Neil's arms. April shot him a grateful smile. He colored deeply, making the bruising darken. Together they entered the lower living area towards the lumpy, but comfortable, sofa.

Leonardo looked at Raph, who stood scowling at Casey's back for some reason, then down to the lifeless bot between them. Calm though he was with getting the situation under control, a sudden and rather familiar irritation filled him as his eyes rose up again to meet his brother's.

_Stay in control._

"What the hell were you thinking?"

Raph stiffened, lowering his arms, fists at his sides. He pressed his mouth together in a tight line. Saying nothing, but staring hard at Leonardo. He opened his mouth only to clamp it shut again. Then, "Why should I bother explainin' it to you? It's not like you want to hear my idea."

_Don't lose your temper._

"You thought it was a good idea to bring this thing here? Home?"

Raph's expression darkened.

_Stay focused._

"Of all the stupid things to do," Leo added, unable to stop the flood of insults building at the back of his mouth; the misplaced hurt of Donatello's cruelty, the pressing guilt, the fury of helplessness all surged into a single mass. It built into a tight knot at the center of his chest.

"I don't want to get into it with you. Not right now," Raph bit out.

_Raph is not your enemy._

"Too bad. We'll deal with this when I say. And I say. Get rid of it. Now."

Raph actually looked torn for a moment before he shut down once more. "No. I've got an idea that I think is a good one."

_He is your brother._

"Are you actually so dense as to think this was a good idea?"

"It wouldn't be the first time we got one down here," Raph ground out, face flushing as his neck heated.

_He's your brother._

"I knew you were stupid, but geez Raph, even for you, this is ridiculous."

His shoulders heaved as he took in a deep breath. His fists tightened as he tried to blow it out in an even, calming, stream.

The words stung. But they were only words. Nothing more. He could let them flow over him, just as sensei had taught him. He didn't need to absorb everything said in anger or frustration or ignorance.

He didn't feel like fighting with Leo, not after lugging this ton of shit all the way down from April's apartment. He wasn't up for it. And he wasn't in the mood.

Besides. He hadn't brought this thing all this way to cause trouble. It was to help. He knew it was a good idea. He knew that Donatello would be excited. Would thank him for thinking of it.

Still, he didn't know what the hell was wrong with Leo, but he wasn't going to stand here and be insulted for trying to help.

"Just get outta my way, I'll get it inside myself." He moved to crouch but stopped as he caught movement from the corner of his eye.

_It wasn't my fault he couldn't obey a simple command._

Leonardo pressed the side of his index finger to his forehead, "Oh, I'm sorry, that's right, you don't think." He dropped his arm, cutting his hand through the air.

_It wasn't my fault that Donatello was targeted. Injured. Maimed._

"Ever. You don't listen to orders, you don't consider the consequences of your actions. No," he laughed and it was a harsh, bitter sound; cut short as he glared at Raphael. "You just act. Right, Raph? Just like at the warehouse."

Raph's eyes widened a fraction of an inch. His throat worked.

_He blames me. But I was listening to Sensei!_

Leo's voice rose, "You're selfish. You've always been selfish. You only care about what you want. When you want it."

He started to move forward, towards Raphael who remained motionless. Staring with a stony expression.

_And now Donatello hates me, because he blames me, too! But it wasn't my fault! I did everything I could!_

"How can I blame you, though, right, Raphael? I mean, you're too thick to think about anyone but yourself. If you'd have listened to me at that warehouse, Don wouldn't have gotten hurt and I wouldn't have had to-to cut off –" As if hearing what he was saying for the first time, Leo stopped; blinking and dropping his pointing finger. He ducked his head and looked aside.

In a blur of movement, Raph vaulted the turnstiles. Crowding into Leo. Leonardo's face shot up, but he stood his ground. Eye to eye. Nose to nose. Raph knocked him back with a loud growl. Leo blocked most of the force but stumbled back a few steps. Raph closed the distance and pushed him again.

Behind Leo, as if sensing the trouble, Mikey stood up, twisting from where he crouched; a bloody wad of gauze pinched between one finger and thumb. "Oh, no."

"You wanna call me names, now, _huh?_ Make you feel better to do that? _Huh?_ You want nothin' better than to pin this whole shitty situation on me, _huh_?"

Raph's green eyes flashed and his face was stormy with fury. Leo slapped his jabbing finger and shoving hand away.

"That make it easier for you, doesn't it. You fuckin' _coward_."

Leo lurched forward at the insult. He head-butted Raph. The impact knocked him back, but just for a moment.

Raphael, bleeding and somewhat dazed, righted himself and roared, "Coward!"

The next time he moved to shove Leo, the older brother fell back and surged forward with a round house kick. Raphael saw it coming and knocked it away with one forearm, coming in close and shooting his fist directly into Leo's face with a quick jab.

He lurched back, but took a clip along his jaw.

"I'm – an – easy – target – after all," Raph bit out as he fought. "To pin the blame on. To hide your – coward's ass – behind!"

Leo's arms moved up and around again and again to block the swiftly oncoming jabs. Left, left and right. He turned them away, absorbing the strikes with his arms, grunting softly with exertion and pain. A heel came up and Leo caught it and twisted it away.

Raph swung his arms wide and then low, mixing up the boxing technique that he'd used dozens of times on Leo in the dojo when sparring.

When honing their skills as teammates.

As brothers.

_He's your brother. He's in pain. Like the rest of us._

"Enough," Leo ground out, closing his eyes in despair; disgusted at how things had gotten out of hand so quick, disgusted with himself for losing control. Raph came at him again, snarling, and he found himself throwing aside another fist aimed for his face. "Raphael! That's enough!"

But Raph had just gotten started.

"Nah, not yet. You wanna act like you're - better than me. Callin' me names like a big man. Well, I'm gonna tell you somethin', Fearless. Maybe," he gasped for breath as he ducked a fist. He smirked and pointed at Leo. "You better listen, 'cuz you need to hear this."

He ducked a hook kick and dropped to sweep Leo's legs. Leo leapt straight up like a spooked jack rabbit. Raph bounced up and landed a blow square to Leo's chest.

He grunted and twisted, trying to grab Raph's arm in a lock.

Raph slipped through his brother's attempt. He deflected a series of punches Leonardo threw and got in close again; his usual comfort level when it came to fighting. Close and personal. He brought up first with his knee, then quickly with an elbow. The knee was blocked, the elbow connected.

Leo fell back, choking, collapsing onto the bunched rug beneath his feet. They'd moved into the living room at some point during the fight. April's voice trying to calm her father rose up above the tinny ringing of his blood racing through his ears.

Raph loomed over him. Swaying on his feet. Bloodied and grim. Panting.

"Maybe," he gasped, "if you would've just gone in to that fucking place," he licked his lip and grimaced. "We could've stopped any of it from ha-happening. Maybe," he growled and moved as if he were about to kick Leo in the face, only stopping at the last second; dropping down into a crouch.

Leo glared at him. Raph's face was less than an inch from his. When he spoke, his lip curled in disgust. "Maybe, it's just your fault for being a shitty _leader_ ," He reached up and poked Leo hard in the snout with the last word.

Leo smacked his hand away.

"Nah, but you can't accept that. Hell," he panted, "you won't even consider what a useless, fuckin' failure of a leader you were to your brother when he needed you most. You know, not just in that warehouse, but when you fuckin' choked and botched the -"

With a snarl, he tackled Raph to the ground. The two of them rolled, growling and hollering curses, a mass of tangled elbows and feet and knees. The sound of fists striking flesh, of gouging fingers and shells scraping against the concrete floor filled the room.

And incrementally, droning louder and louder until it blotted out all other noise: the shrill mechanical sound of a machine whirring to life.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DUN DUN DUUUUN!
> 
> Omygawd, this is what develops when you get a wild muse racing up your . . . well. Let's just say I could barely keep up with my fingers this afternoon as they typed this sucker up.


	16. Donatello Does Machines

"The only person you are destined to become is the person you decide to be." -Ralph Waldo Emerson

* * *

 

Donatello sat side by side on the bed with his father when the coarse yelling, swearing and sounds of a flesh striking flesh broke through the temporary quiet. Master Splinter sighed through his nose. He braced one hand on Donatello's right shoulder, squeezing gently. One ear cocked back as he listened to the racket beyond the door, every blow felt in the center of him nearly as if he'd been the one to receive it, he kept his eyes on his son.

Donatello clutched at the wad of tissues balled up against one thigh. He sniffed and looked to the door. "Sounds bad." He glanced at his father before dropping his eyes.

"This series of tragedies has left us all with wounds."

"I'm sorry," he said under his breath, closing his eyes and pressing out another tear; it jittered down the curved plane of his cheek.

"Do not misunderstand me. None of this is your fault, Donatello. You must not carry a burden which is not yours to bear."

Donatello kept his eyes pinched tight, breath held, as he shook his head sharply.

Master Splinter took his son's chin gently and raised it. His thumb brushed away the trail of moisture from his lower cheek. "We are family. Which means, we live together. We fight and we hurt together."

He went on as Donatello's eyes opened. He wiped the rest of the moisture away with his palm and then rested his hand on his child's face before removing it to his lap.

"We heal and grow together. Supporting each other the only way family can. Through love and compassion. You are not alone. Not in any of this."

"I-I know," Donatello started, but Splinter went on before he could continue.

"And it is our shared burden to overcome these obstacles life has placed before us. As it has always been. And continues to be. As long as we have one another, our love, loyalty and faith will sustain us, even in this darkest most challenging time."

"Donatello," Splinter said with a soft sigh, "our family will overcome this and be healed. Just as you shall be. In time."

He allowed the words to sink into his son's mind. They sat in silence for a beat. The muffled sound of his sons' argument in the other room the only noise.

Reluctantly, Donatello nodded. His eyes traveled to the stump. For the first time since he'd awaken to find his arm taken, he allowed himself to hope. It felt like standing at the beginning of a tightrope spanning a gulf of darkness fraught with unknowns; one he had to cross in order to be reunited with his family who waited for him somewhere beyond the other end.

And though he was afraid, he felt himself moving towards the first step.

Splinter stood up and clasped his hands together. He ducked his head. "I must attend to your brothers before they do something I make them regret." His tone softened, "Try to get some sleep, my son. I'm sure you are exhaus-"

His words were cut off by a mechanical humming that seemed to vibrate the walls surrounding them. Startled, he turned and shot a questioning look to his son.

Donatello sat, frowning, head tilted, listening. "What is . . ." Donatello's eyes widened. He jumped to his feet. Shot forward several steps when Splinter stopped him.

Their eyes met.

"Stay here," he commanded.

Though his legs were shaking, Donatello remained upright. The sound, one that haunted the worst of his nightmares, reverberated through the bricks, through the sanctity of their home into his room.

"But!"

"Do not leave this room!"

Splinter eased him back by his shoulders, gazing with a strict commanding expression in his eyes, and then whirled around. He dashed from the room, closing the door firmly behind him.

Donatello stared open-mouthed at the door for only a beat before he wheeled around, searching his room, eyes bouncing along shelves, his desk, the end of his bed. He spotted one of his spare bo staffs. His heart leapt in his chest.

He lumbered forward and gripped it, but as soon as he hefted it, he glanced at his stump. Realizing there was no way he'd be able to use it. Not without having trained in this condition. He wasn't even sure if he'd be able to utilize the weapon ever again. Even if he could, it would be useless against the lasers.

Like before. He suddenly dropped it, jumping back slightly as if it bit him. He turned his palm up and stared at his remaining hand. His fingers curled into a fist and he dropped his arm.

His head dropped. A tremor ran through him. His heart pounded as though he'd run a mile. Sweat broke out over his brow.

What was this, now? An anxiety attack? A flashback?

"I don't have time for this," he hissed. "Get yourself together."

He ran his hand over his face, wiping away the perspiration, banishing the fright. Shoving it back. He spun on his heel.

"Think, Donatello. Think!"

There had to be something.

 _Anything_.

"Wait."

He dropped to his knees and flopped onto his left shoulder. He bit back a cry of pain as sharp bursts of light erupted in front of his vision. He reached through the clutter, puffing his cheeks as he huffed past the pain. Grinding his teeth together.

"Please, please be here."

His fingers bumped past tools, crumpled paper and several unfinished, forgotten toys that he'd been making for Mikey long before the accident, until; finally, his fingertips skimmed along the slim edge of something flat and metallic.

His breath froze in his chest as his fingers patted the object, confirming his hopes. "Yes! Ohho, yes."

He scooted back and slid the hammered sheet of metal out from under his bed. The gleaming surface reflected his distorted face, distended by the imperfect surface, but further marred by puffy blood-shot eyes from all the crying he'd done moments ago. His gap-toothed grin spread across his face as he raised it and kissed it.

He spun on his bottom and clambered up to his feet. Tucking it under his left armpit, again, the pain came bright and numb all at once, a throbbing back drum to the whirring buzzing, he ran out of his room into the chaos of their home.

April had her fan open, ducking and dragging her father past him towards the rear of the lair.

"This way, Dad! Hurry!"

Kirby had one hand covering the top of his head and he was making a high-pitched wail as they passed Donatello. He watched them go, thinking that he'd have to check on her father's mental stability, noting the wild look in his eyes, the ashen pallor of his face, before snapping his attention to his brothers.

Leonardo – battered and barking orders at his brother - and Raphael – bruised and hollering back at Leo – were bouncing around and over up-turned furniture, doing their best to deflect the bot's blasts with their weapons. But Donatello noted that it was advancing, pushing the brothers back under stress from the heavy fire.

Splinter was swiftly scaling the tree in the center of the room, trying to get to the large limb spanning part of the ceiling nearest to the bot. He was trying to get up and behind the thing, but it fired from a central spinning canon embedded in its chest cavity. The barrels adjusted angles with every other blast; rotating clock-wise and counter-clockwise, forcing his brothers and father into evasive maneuvers.

If he didn't do something to incapacitate that bot, it was only a matter of time before it landed a target.

He shuffled diagonally through the living room, holding up the metal sheet that he'd molded from the last of the salvaged Kraang bot's metal chassis. Once, he'd planned on making a shield for the Shellraiser's rear double windows, but had forgotten he'd even had it until now. One more project that he'd no doubt never get the chance to finish.

"Well, it was going to be a shield, anyway," he mumbled as he ducked behind it. "Not a total loss."

The laser beam struck it and knocked him back with surprising force. His body twisted. He tumbled and off-balanced, he toppled to his shell. His legs nearly going over his head. He grunted and rolled onto his left side, seeing stars. Crumpling. His body curled over the agony radiating from his stump, knees up to his chest, head bracing on the floor.

_"Oh, god. Ugh."_

He reached out and slammed his fist into the floor. Then once again. He spread his fingers and flattened his hand against the concrete and pushed himself somewhat upright. The motion flared the throbbing pain into a firestorm of crippling cramping anguish. He cried out. Spittle flew from between his lips.

With a growl, he tried again. The muscles in his arm bunched and he pushed. Righting himself, brushing the pain away as much as he could. Stubbornly refusing to let it knock him into unconsciousness. His breathing came through his gritted teeth in ragged bursts. He felt his stomach roll and his gorge rose.

"C'mon you useless piece of crap, get it together!" he hissed under his breath. The sounds of the battle blurred and then sharpened over the sound of his blood rushing through his ears. "They need me. They need my help."

He crawled forward, reaching for the metal sheet. He clawed it to his knees, still gulping the air and shaking like a new-born foal.

"One step at a time," he murmured.

As he came up, and twisted back toward the fray, he spotted the orange tails of Michelangelo's mask flit through the air. His stomach knotted. He sat up higher on his knees, clutching at his aching stump with clawed fingers, fighting the nausea.

"Mikey," he choked and the sound was more of a gurgle.

Mikey spun his chucks, weaving and rolling out of the volley of laser blasts. He whooped and dove aside, a ray just missing his hip.

Donatello felt his stomach fill with ice water as the vivid memory of seeing Mikey in the path of one of the Skipper's line of fire flashed before his mind's eye. Shaking, he rose up to stand, fighting the terror trying to seize him and keep him frozen in place. The rapid thrum of his heart made a sick duet with the rhythm of the throbbing pain in his stump, radiating into his shoulder and throat. The trickling sweat down the back of his neck became over-exaggerated, as if his entire body had become super aware.

Imagery assaulted him, so that even as he stood there watching Mikey dodging life-threatening blasts, he was seeing the incident back in the warehouse replay before his glazed eyes. The scent of his blackened flesh filled his nostrils. Gagging him. The sound of the tissue crackling and rippling back away from the bone filled his ears. The tingling, electric nerve pain cramped his hand. He stumbled forward with a whimper.

His hand! His arm!

He was gaping, chest squeezing for air. Heart hammering against his ribs until near bursting. Head swimming, soaked in perspiration. Legs shaking so badly he could barely stand. There was a pressure building between his ears, filling the back of his throat, suffocating him.

He couldn't breathe. He couldn't breathe!

The tableau shattered in one great gasp. He heard someone screaming. Hoarse and frantic. To his shock, he realized it was him.

_"Mikey! Mikey! No! Get down! Mikey! GET DOWN!"_

Mikey turned, shocked, in the direction of his voice. He mouthed, "D?"

And Donatello could not hear him above the roaring susurration of the blood in his ears. The dropping sensation, that he was falling through the floor, no longer standing, but tumbling, dragged him sideways. His eyes darted from the bot as it adjusted its aim back to Mikey, standing exposed in direct sight of the robotic killing machine.

_What have I done?_

Instead of warning his brother, he'd only distracted him.

It was in slow motion that he saw the laser beam fire; tracing its trajectory. It was in nightmare-speed that his knees buckled; his feet slugged against invisible sludge covering the floor as he tried to force them to move.

He'd never make it. Not this time. It would be Mikey's face disintegrated this time.

And it was all his fault.

His brothers' and father's cries were echoing in long distorted voices in his head, "Michelangelo! Look out!" "No, Mikey!" "Get down!"

Mikey flinched and started to duck, but it wouldn't be enough not unless . . .

Donatello's heels dug in, twisting his torso, he whipped his arm back and around, firing the sheet of metal at his brother. It sailed through the air, turning at the precise angle just as it reached the front of Michelangelo's face. The young mutant lurched back with a gasp as the metal projectile nearly shaved the flesh from his snout.

The laser blast struck the metal with a ringing  _BANG!_  The shield slammed back just as a blur of motion erupted across the front of his brother.

Casey had hooked his arm around Mikey's neck as he flung himself into the mutant boy, knocking him down. They rolled over and to one side until Casey was on top of him. Sheltering Mikey from any further assault.

The shield whirred end over end just past the space where Michelangelo's head had been only seconds before. It crashed into the trunk of the tree and embedded there. Vibrating from the impact.

A wide smile split Donatello's face! He'd done it. Mikey was safe. He pumped his fist in the air with a hearty motion.  _"Ye-ah!"_

The adrenaline fueled euphoria was short-lived as Raphael's pained shout brought his attention back to the attacking bot.

Leo shouted, "Raph, ten o'clock!" then went back to deflecting the beams aimed at him and their father who made slow progress across the limbs of the tree above.

Raphael's sai spun in the air. Shot from his grip. The main prong struck a cabinet and lodged there. His shout filled the air. Frustrated. In pain.

Donatello hurried forward. He vaulted over the end of the love-seat laying on its side. He ducked and rolled forward in a clumsy somersault to the up-ended coffee table. The motion sent waves of nausea rippling through him. He gulped and forced back the looming pain. Ignoring the sporadic quivering in his left shoulder which accompanied the sharp electric bolts of discomfort.

"Raph," he gasped, "where'd it get you?"

Raph huddled, grimacing and grinding his teeth so hard his jaw jumped. "Ain't nothin'. Why are you out here? Donnie, you-you should be in your room. Get outta here!"

He was trembling though trying to hide the fact. He held his hand pressed tightly over one shoulder and Donatello could see the reddening flesh between his fingers.

Ignoring Raphael's scolding, Donatello scooted closer and reached for his fingers. Raph's lip curled in a protective snarl, but allowed him to peel back one finger to peer at the wound. Raph turned his face away, panting lightly.

"Ain't nothin'," he grunted again between his gritted teeth, glowering at the air in front of his snout.

There was a deep horizontal gash, running from the front to the rear of his deltoid, but no blood. Cauterized. He'd been grazed by one of the laser blasts.

He replaced his brother's finger and gave him a slight nod. His voice shook from exertion and the waning exhaustion which filled him as the adrenaline boost retreated. "We can patch that up."

Donatello rested his hand along the rim of the over-turned table, catching his breath as he pressed his forehead upon the back of his hand.

"Donnie, please. You look like you're about to pass out."

He nodded and raised his eyes. He peered over the table to see Leonardo deflecting more blasts as Splinter crawled above, using his son's distracting offensive while he was able. He ducked as another laser fired just over his head.

"An operational Kraang bot," he asked, "but no Kraang?"

"I'm so fuckin' stupid," Raph ground out.

Donatello's face snapped to his brother's.

"I was . . . bringing it down here. For you. Thought you'd like it. I dunno," he huffed. "Something to pass the time." He shifted and winced with a grunt. "Thought maybe you could make yourself something nice. Like, uh, what's it called? A pros-tech-netic thing. Whatever. You know what I mean."

Donatello blinked at that. "A prosthetic," he said softly.

Raph closed his eyes and bobbed his head. "That's it. I swear, I checked the damn thing. I did." Raph's eyes were bright and there was a hoarse waver of fury and sorrow in his voice. "It was dead. No lights. No pink glob. No trackers. Nothing. I just . . . I just wanted to help you."

Donnie dropped his eyes. Guilt stabbed him.

_I push them away, say hateful things, and they nearly kill themselves to get me a gift._

The wooziness he was feeling earlier tripled. His vision blurred. Donatello rubbed the sweat from his brow with the back of one fist, kneading his eyes hard. He felt like crying. He felt like laughing. Mostly, he felt like he was going to be sick on his brother.

A prosthetic. Kraang tech. Now that would be something.

The hope died instantly as his phantom pain decide to make an appearance. Adding to the various cramping, throbbing, aching pains already running through his body, his missing hand suddenly itched like hell. He shuddered.

_A prosthetic made from Kraang tech. Hah. Like I could build anything that intricate in the state I'm in. I'm lucky if I ever learn to walk straight again. Well, it's the thought that counts._

He chuckled darkly. Raphael's wide-eyed confused expression cut the sound off in the back of his throat.

_Focus._

He coughed. The motion sent another wave of multiple torments through his system. "Uh, um, the chassis, the body, I mean, the skeletal . . . uh, the bot."  _Dammit_. Maybe if he could stop babbling. He noticed he was sweating more despite shivering uncontrollably. "Uh, it was lights out the whole time you carried it down here?"

Raphael, looking grim, nodded.

Donatello thought for a minute. He braced his fist against his moist forehead. He started mumbling, "Must be a sensor on it. Something to trigger a defensive attack should one of their exo-suits fall into the wrong hands. Hmm, but the other one didn't do that when we brought it down here."

He stared at Raphael and past him. Eyes distant. His gaze trained on his memory of taking apart the other Kraang bot. He shook his head absentmindedly. He pressed the heel of his hand to his mouth, mostly to keep from vomiting.

"No." He argued with himself, "That one was out once we took out the biological entity. Hmm. Maybe they've upgraded the operating system since then. Like a homing device? Or maybe a defensive strategy to kill off any unwanted government or police agency that might try to acquire an exo-suit for study? To safeguard retrieval of the exo-suits? Any of these are possibilities. But also . . . there's the other, very possible, uh, possibility."

He blinked and swallowed at the bile rising, feeling the migraine like a freight train barreling down on him, clouding his coherent thoughts. Suddenly he wanted nothing more than to sleep. Exhaustion dragged on his limbs.

"What," Raph asked, afraid to know.

"That it's being remotely operated, which would be," he closed his eyes, trying to make the room stop spinning, "big trouble."

"Dammit," Raph slammed the back of his head against the table.

"Don't do that."

"What, this is my fault."

"You only wanted to help me. And," he held up his hand, for a minute, to his joy and despair, he saw two before his watering vision, "I appreciate it. I do. I really do." His head bobbed and dipped. Far away Leonardo was shouting to Master Splinter. Further away above the scent of sweat and burnt flesh, the apple-sweet perfume of April's shampoo drifted to him, drowsing him.

"Donnie," Raph asked from under a churning sea, his words bubbling up to the surface, "are you okay?"

He nodded and shook his head. "I have to-to take it out."

"Wait, what?"

"The-the sensor."

"No," Raph warned. "You are going to stay put." He moved to grip Donatello by the arm when April was suddenly behind Donatello.

"Hey," she said, glancing around nervously.

The three of them started as the coffee table took another hit, shuddering from the force. April squeaked and ducked. Donatello leaned over his bent knees, rocking slightly.

"So, you guys having a camp out under here, or making a plan to stop this thing?"

Raphael stared at her.

She blew a strand of hair off her brow. "Sorry, bad time for jokes. But seriously, any ideas?"

Raph asked, "Where's your dad?"

"He's locked in the lab, Casey and Mikey just ran down to watch the door. He was . . . upset."

"You should get back there and stay with him," Raph said.

"And miss the fun? Please Raph, I thought you knew me better." She stuck her tongue out at Raphael who rolled his eyes. Then she noticed Donatello's strange position. Her eyes darted back to his brother, questioningly. All attempts at mirth vanished, replaced with sinking dread.

Raph gave her a shrug and shook his head. "Get him back to his room, April."

She moved to take him by the shoulders.

Her fingertips were fire and ice. Donatello shrugged away. "No! I have to take out the sensor." He shuffled back, away from them both.

Raph and April exchanged looks. "Get 'em to his room, now, April."

"Wait. What sensor?" April asked.

"It doesn't matter," Raph growled as he sat forward, grimacing in pain, still clutching his oozing shoulder. "It might not even have one," Raph said. "It might be on remote control or something."

"That's right." Donatello ran his tongue over his bottom lip. It tasted like Mikey's homemade pasta, rubbery and undercooked. His fingers clawed loosely on the floor, then his hand ran up to his stump. "Wish I had my bo." He chuckled. "The trusty matchstick against a wildfire. Still," he grew serious, if not more vague, "there's a certain comfort one develops with regards to one's weapons."

This time the look exchanged between Raph and April was one of deepening concern. He moved to stand up and April and Raph lunged at him, pulling on him to get back down. A sequence of rays fired overhead.

"Donnie!"

"What are you thinkin' egghead? You ain't up for a fight!" Raph's face snapped to April. "I swear to god, April, get him to his room. NOW!"

April, crouching, took him by the arm. "C'mon, Donnie. Please! I have enough to worry about with my father going crazy! I don't need this!"

He glanced at her hands on him and yanked free. "Then let me be! I'm not an infant!" he shouted.

She recoiled, instantly regretful for her outburst, but feeling more and more at a loss as to what to make of this situation.

He wheeled on Raph, "If I don't do something Leo or Master Splinter's going to get fried! Do you really want to be the one amputating limbs this time?!"

Raph's face mottled, but he rallied. He growled. "No way. If anyone's going back into the fight, it's me. I'm the stupid puke who brought -"

Donatello reached out and shoved his brother back; pushing against the hand covering his wounded shoulder. Pressing his weight into it until Raphael squirmed and finally, whimpered and choked.

"Donnie! Stop! You're hurting him!"

Donatello fell back onto his haunches as April dragged him away from his brother.

" _Graa-ah!_  Wh-What the hell, man!?" Raph jerked into a ball of pain, curling forward, panting and growling.

"Hurts, doesn't it. That's nothing compared to what it feels like to have one of those things hit you full on. Trust me. I know."

April stared at him. The color drained from her face.

Raph's murderous look dissolved into something between a kicked puppy and someone who's just realized the Greek yogurt they slurped was expired milk.

Donatello gave them an unpleasant smile. "I think I've made my point."

He stood up as lasers lit up the ceiling and walls around him. He swayed slightly to one side then the other. The background noises submerged beneath the thundering of his heart. He hefted Raphael's remaining sai.

Raph's tearing gaze rose up and he started, eyes circles. "My sai!"

"I may not be whole," Donatello jerked his head towards his stump, "but there's something I can do that you can't." He tapped the side of his head with the end of the handle of the weapon.

"Donnie," April said, her voice drawing out his name, eyes wide with worry.

He glanced at her. The smile wavered. "Don't worry," he said with false reassurance. "I know where the sensor is most likely located."

"Please don't do this. Come back to your room," she whispered.

He only shook his head. "Hiding. Cowering from a little," he chuckled, "flesh wound." His face twisted. "That's not me. That's not what I'm going to be."

"What are you going to do?"

"What I do best."

She shook her head, uncomprehendingly. Feeling a vibe coming from him which was a mix of determination and resignation. April knew she couldn't stop him. She'd never felt more helpless or afraid than she did at this moment.

"Well, you know," his grin returned, manic but strangely him, "I do machines."

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Woo! Go, Donnie GO! Forgive me for bringing a little classic Donnie into the 2k12 'verse - manic from the comics and 'does machines' from...well, you know the song. ;'D


	17. Rise and Fall

'...pity involves the belief in the inferiority of the object.' - Aaron Ben-Zeev Ph.D.

"The real test of love is loving those who we feel are the hardest ones to love." ― Criss Jami,  _Killosophy_

* * *

He'd heard it from somewhere, or read about it once, that when entering into battle, adrenaline pumping, facing off with impossible odds or some terrible foe, with death as sure as the smoke filling your lungs or the bloody pools pock-marking the fields, there was a calm. Like the eye of a storm. An encapsulated center where time slowed, pain ebbed and thought became clear and sharp.

He'd never quite felt that on the rooftops, in the butcher shop, in the alleys or shipping yards, not when his brothers needed him present. Not when their lives depended on the rerouting the wiring of feather-touch-ignition explosives or reconfiguring technology that he barely understood all while under extreme time pressure.

No. Donatello could not afford the luxury of submitting himself to the euphoric rush of the battle as his brothers, Raph in particular, reveled within. He could not lose himself so wholly.

Maybe it was the cocoon of agony that sheltered him, maybe it was the lure of knowledge that there was finally an out; an escape route from that very anguish which held him in a possessive lover's embrace, or maybe he'd finally relinquished his senses to that animal king, that emperor of reason lost: Pain.

Whatever the causality, he was there. Immersed. Where doubt withered to ash. And nothing could touch him. No pain. No fear. No sound could penetrate the susurration of his racing blood in his ears.

Time slowed. Peripheral vision blurred. The voices of his brother and his heart's deepest love faded to the background.

He vaulted over the table, head-on, into the sickly pink glow of lasers, haloing his body in an unnatural umbra; lighting up the branches of the tree above him in a negative. A reversal. He swam through the thickened air as an eel undulates through the murk. Sleek. Sure.

And from the corner of his mind he heard the concerned shout from above. The distant commanding voice of his father still navigating to an advantage point he could not quite reach. He could not obey the order to fall back. To retreat. To hide and cower like an injured bird.

He was done doing that. He was done.

Donatello dove right then barreled directly towards the place where his brother stood courageously fending off the robot's laser attacks. Leonardo, drenched in a fine sheen of sweat, unseeing that he was just behind him, twisted in a flash of motion to duck a blast from the barrel aimed directly at his face.

The beam shot forward. Over his brother's lowered head by mere centimeters. It sailed benignly over Leonardo's skull, singeing the very tips of his azure mask.

The refraction stretched, distorted and lengthened.

Straight towards him.

And time slowed while he deliberated.

_Here's your chance, Donny-boy._

The trajectory was a nearly perfect. It would be a direct hit. A clean death. An easy out.

_It would be over._

If he allowed it.

_The pain. The humiliation of what's to come._

If he surrendered here.

_The weeks . . . no, months of rehabilitation._

No one would really know it had been a decision made and not an accident befallen him.

_The surrender of all he loved. His inventing. His bo staff. April's respect._

The temptation swelled like a bulbous canker.

_They don't need me. Not like this._

It would be as simple as remaining still. Like falling asleep.

_Close your eyes, Donatello. You're done here._

He blinked at that last mental command, slow and drawn-out. But his eyes opened. Remained open.

From deep within, from the kernel of his essence compressed at the center of his soul, there rose up the stubborn refusal. The side of his character that kept him working around the clock with little to no sleep until the problem was solved, until the answer uncovered, the puzzle assembled and whole. The determination. The fire hidden but secured deeply inside. His curiosity. His drive.

To imagine. To learn. To understand. To create.

To love and be loved in return.

The immeasurable worth of his self.

_I'm not useless. I can still think._

And his keen mind - no more dulled by his lacking of a limb than by some vague tragic circumstance at the other end of the universe -  _focused_.

The schematics of that long-ago Kraang bot filled his mind, eradicating the earlier temptation. Obliterating it. A map of intricate design blotted his vision. The information zipped through his mind's eye.

In the span of micro-seconds that it took for the laser to sail across the meager feet separating him from Leonardo, he zeroed in on the connection post which would control the main barrel of the laser canon situated at the center of the bot's chest. The one which, taken out, would severely limit the twin-sized smaller accompanying guns.

The solution was simple. So much so, he would have laughed out loud had he the opportunity. But he had no time.

The spell of impending death was broken. The lure of a coward's way out imploded.

_I've never been a coward. And I won't start now._

Time resumed its natural pace.

He leveled the sai in his palm, measuring the weight as he immediately dropped, legs splayed in a horizontal split. The blast shot over his head.

He snapped his legs together, slid forward and rolled. First to the right, then, more quickly to the left, adjusting to fit the degree of angle and trajectory needed; barreling over his stump and using the momentum gained from the missing limb to his advantage. He spun his legs over his body in a quick kip up.

And as his torso curled forward, he threw the sai.

It sailed, whistling, across the expanse of the room. It slammed directly into the center of the bot's main barrel, lodging there securely.

Exactly as he'd calculated.

The bot seized. Its torso went rigid. Limbs splayed outwards as it jumped and started to smoke from the chest cavity. The groaning of stuck gears, the screech of metal resisting metal filled the air. The smaller barrels twisted manically upon their immobilized turrets, firing in all directions wildly, missing all targets and singeing the bot's legs and arms in the process.

Donatello ducked and flattened himself on the ground. Eyes wide and wild snapped to his brother. "Now! Leo!"

At his brother's shout, Leonardo's thighs bunched where he crouched in front of the Kraang bot. He lurched forward, cutting upwards with his twin blades, into the torso and out, splitting the smaller gun barrels into fragments. Sparks flew and the sound of electric spasms filled the room. The stench of ozone and smoke wafted over them.

Scrambling to his feet, lumbering to one side, then the other, dizzy and still determined, Donatello shoved Leonardo out of the way. Feeling the rush of nearly losing his life draining out of him; taking his strength and clarity with it. Replaced by the seething pain and rolling nausea.

His vision tripled and blurred. He clamped his eyes shut. The threat of unconsciousness loomed.

_Not yet._

He set his jaw and carried on with what needed to be done.

The Kraang bot jittered and bucked in front of him. Stepping back a half-step and forward again in some strange dance of malfunctioning components. The thing's head tipped in broken jerks from one side to the other in ever increasing jolts. Lights flashed as it short-circuited, fingers clawing the air.

He grabbed the back of its head and brought his left knee up, bending the smoking, mechanical man by the waist over his leg. With the stump of his left arm, he secured it by the back of its neck.

He ran his right hand down the metallic spinal column; hissing in pain and gasping from exertion. The mechanical body wrestled and thrashed. The sharp edges of the planes of the vertebrae bit into his searching palm. The shrieking rose to an ear-splitting peel. It flailed and wriggled as if somehow aware of what the turtle sought.

Donatello kept it pinned with his body, despite the sharp joints digging into him. The explosions of pain erupting behind his eyelids with every blink. He wrapped his fingers around the lumbar vertebrae located just before the thoracic. He felt the disc-shaped depression with one fingertip. He pressed,  _hard_.

There came a zipping sound, followed by a muffled pop. The bot went limp against Donatello and the sudden weight of it collapsed over him as he fell in a heap. The chassis smoked and the heat of the metal burned his skin where metal met flesh. His chest felt crushed by the weight. Too heavy to even call out for assistance.

Dimly, he heard his brothers' voices, felt their hands tugging him out from under the robot, asking him whether or not he was okay.

He wanted to tell them yes. He wanted to joke and make some witty quip. But someone threw a blanket of darkness over him and with it went his consciousness.

# # #

He awoke in a rush of violent imagery assaulted him. All his senses snapping to life. All but one.

He heaved upwards off his pillow with a gasp. Thrashed his legs against the cotton blanket. Swinging his right arm around out above him in frenzied movement.

"Donnie," she said. "It's okay. It's okay now."

His head jerked in the direction of her voice. Startled, he realized he couldn't see. He made a soft strangled sound.

_I can't see. Why can't I see?_

"April?" His voice sounded panicked and thin.

The folded rag was removed from his eyes. He blinked rapidly, feeling a surge of relief followed by embarrassment at his bleak assumption that the Kraang bot had blinded him sometime during the fight.

April's face loomed to his right at his bedside. He was in his bedroom, on his bed. His gaze shot around the space. A slight frown puckered between his eyes.

"The bot?"

"They took it to the supply room. Splinter went over the body. He didn't find anything that could be a tracking device."

Donatello shook his head. "I don't think it had one. Just acting on defense. That's my theory, at least. I could be wrong."

"I don't think so. We'd be inundated with Kraang otherwise." She added, "Leo didn't want it here, but Raph insisted you could still use it."

He blew out a shaky breath, still recovering from his initial fright of the possibility of blindness on top of his current disability. "Yeah," he said, voice reedy. It turned bitter, "He thinks I can make something out of it."

"Oh?"

His stump lifted and dropped. He shook his head, a disgusted smile drifted across his mouth before disappearing; flashing the gap in his teeth and making him look terribly young. The words came out as one in a weak gust of breath, "A prosthetic."

Her eyes lit up. She moved closer to his side, nearly touching his arm with her hands still clutching the rag. And he couldn't help but notice how when she grew interested in something, her entire countenance glowed. Her curiosity and intelligence never far beneath the surface. Within her was an eternal flame that ever drew him closer.

"Could you?"

He frowned. "Could I what?"

"Make one with that?"

He stared at her, considering. The hope in her eyes was doing something to his chest; making it squeeze his lungs. He gave her a partial shrug. "Maybe if I had both hands, but then again," he said sharply, eyes glinting hard, "I wouldn't exactly need a prosthetic in that case."

April wrung the rag between her hands, sitting back, further away from him. No longer looking at him, but at something on the floor next to his bed.

He felt a pang of regret. He did that. Pushed her away. There was no need to do that. There was nothing to protect himself against. He was ready, finally, to accept things as they were.

Facing the oncoming death-ray of that Kraang bot, when he'd had the choice, he'd made one. The right one. He knew he couldn't have chosen differently. And it was liberating. But it also was time to face reality: He would never be whole; he wasn't getting his arm back.

And he would never be more than a mutant to her. A crippled one.

When her eyes rose again to meet his, there was the pity, as he expected. He coughed, veering the conversation away from anything that might give her more reason to look at him that way, "How's Raph's arm?"

"Mikey fixed him up. Did a great job."

He thought of something, "And your dad?"

April's eyes darted to the side. "He's adjusting."

"He seemed," he fingered the edge of the blanket, "not quite himself."

"It's been a rough couple of months, Donnie."

Donatello nodded, unable to comment, voice stolen for the moment. "I'm sorry," he managed thickly.

"Donatello," she started.

The use of his full name caught his attention. He looked up at her cautiously.

"I know this is not the perfect time. But . . . It never seemed to be the right time, after-after your accident."

His brows came together, bracing for something that he wasn't sure was coming, but dreading the next words to spill from her mouth nonetheless.

"But I need to tell you this." She looked up and her eyes were bright and intense. "I have to. I should have said something before. As soon as I understood. When everything was simpler. But I think," she ran her tongue over her bottom lip, "I think I was afraid."

His heart sped up. His mouth went dry.

"Of what might change. Between us. Because your friendship is so important to me. You've been my only friend, my  _best_  friend, for the past few years and I-I just couldn't stand the thought of losing you."

He fidgeted then froze, despite wanting to climb out of the bed and hurry from the room. To check on Raph. To reexamine the bot for tracking devices just in case.

To be anywhere but here for this.

"But it was more than that." She ducked her head, gathering her thoughts. Struggling for a moment. She reached out and took his hand. Her palm was sweaty.

He swallowed. Shook his head slightly, though what he was denying, he wasn't sure. "April."

"Donatello," she said, voice dropping into a whisper, "you mean so much to me. I never meant to hurt you or confuse you. I never meant to be cruel."

His head began shaking back and forth more vigorously. "No. You-You . . . It doesn't matter." He opened his mouth and found he couldn't speak, he swallowed and tried again. "I understand." His hand rolled over to cover hers, squeezing it gently once before laying still.

"It's okay."

"But," she started only for him to chuckle, cutting her off.

"C'mon," he said through the broken sound of his laugh, "I never took it s-seriously. My, uh, my crush on you." The last word was a bare breath, forced past his lips. He lifted his hand to wipe at one eye, still raggedly chuckling. "Knew it was s-stupid. Foolish, I mean. Kid stuff." He sniffed loudly and both of them started at the sound.

"Donnie, that's not, not at all what-" she started.

He moved to sit up, kicking the blanket away, scooting around her to the side of his mattress. He rose to stand and the earlier exertion from his battle with the Kraang bot made its presence known with pain rippling through his limbs. He groaned as the edges of his vision went dark then cleared.

April jumped to her feet; moved to steady him. "You're not listening to me. And you shouldn't be out of bed."

"I heard you perfectly," he snapped, then softer, "I feel fine." He righted himself and pulled out of her grasp. He moved quickly towards the door, limping slightly, but otherwise feeling strong now that the initial wavelength of pain had passed. His head felt clearer. His heart continued to pinch and race, however and the backs of his eyes stung. But those were minor disturbances.

And he had no doubt he'd recover. In time.

"But Donnie, I need to finish what I was saying."

He closed his eyes. "Do you," he said, "really?"

She hurried around him, stood in front of him. "Yes. I do. Really."

He stared over the top of her head. "Do you care for me so little . . .?" He shook his head. "I'm sorry." His voice grew colder, louder, "You're right, April. You should get it out. It's been a long time coming, hasn't it?"

She stubbornly stood her ground.

"And I'm sure it's been very hard on you. Knowing that I . . . that-that someone cared about you, really cared whether you were safe or not, h-happy or not." He stopped abruptly, jaw jumping.

"Donatello."

"Just," he snarled, but it was breathless, defeated, "get it over with."

"I love you."

He stared at her. Unmoving. Not breathing. But his mind spun. It didn't make any sense. It couldn't be possible. There was only one reason she was saying this to him. Now.

He must have looked as incredulous as he felt for she pushed the ludicrous statement.

"I love you," she repeated. Insisted.

"You . . ."

_No. Oh no. Don't do this to me. April. Why would you do this? I thought I was your friend._

He shook his spinning head, helplessly. Wanting her to stop. To tell him he was wrong to think what he was – that this proclamation wasn't simply made out of pity. It wasn't some shallow way for her to relieve herself of the guilt of these past few years now that he was so pathetically mangled.

Just as he had regain some shred of self-worth, she reduced him to nothing. A sad story. One she could shake her head to and feel yet another way to be superior to him.

_Poor little mutant boy. Now more hideous due to his disability._

"Donnie? Did you hear me? It's true."

_It's true. It's not true. It doesn't even matter. It isn't real. It is pity. A condolence for my state of being._

He glanced around wheeling within; lost. When he pitched forward, he braced his hand on his knee; took in a shuddering breath, blew it out, then another. He straightened. His eyes shot to hers. They were cold and hard. Flat.

"I love you," she said, and there was pleading in her voice.

"Ha," he croaked and stepped back, away from her. "Ha ha." Another step until, knees buckling, he stumbled.  _"Ahah! Ahaha Ahahaaah. Ahah hah haaaah."_

He dropped backwards onto his bed, rolled awkwardly onto his left side, clutching the blanket around his face, curling it over the top of his head, legs kicking as he continued the painful-sounding laughter.

"Why are you . . . Stop," she said. Her fingertips went to her mouth; her opposite hand pressed against her middle. She moved forward a step, halted by a fresh peel of muffled laughter, then backpedaled until her back hit the door. "Stop it. Stop laughing. Donnie?"

Tears welled in her eyes and she spun on her heel. She threw open the door and fled.

The muted sound of his hoarse guffaws chased after her heels. Had she listened, she would have heard the shuddering gasps in between; the great sobs heaving through his chest and throat.

The sound of his wounded, broken heart.


	18. Greater Good

_"The opposite of love's indifference."_ –The Lumineers,  _Stubborn Love_

 

* * *

The next morning, April lay on her cot in the spare room; eyes dark-circled and bloodshot. Across from her on a makeshift air-mattress, her father snored lightly. Blanket tucked around his shoulders, bunched up near his neck like a cowl. His feet hung off the end, one sock missing. The top of his forehead was visible and it was smooth and unwrinkled. He seemed to be sleeping peacefully enough.

_Thank goodness for small favors._

Last night she'd offered him the cot, thinking it would be more comfortable for him, but he'd emphatically refused. He'd been calm and seemingly unaffected by the earlier chaos. He was particularly lucid but not quite enough to take note of how his daughter's eyes were red and puffed from crying. Or the way her hands shook as she reached for the mug of cocoa that Casey had made and left out on the desk, cooling slightly in her room. A small offering of friendship that she appreciated deeply at the time.

As far as her father's overlooking her frazzled emotional state, April hadn't minded. It was for the best. She didn't need to answer uncomfortable questions. Not tonight. And nothing she would have wanted to say would be something her father would want to hear.

_Dad, I'm in love with a mutant, but he's giving me the cold shoulder and I don't know why. Or better yet, Dad, I told Donatello I loved him tonight and he laughed in my face like a lunatic. Can you help me figure out why?_

She'd been up through the long hours of the night, restless and lost. Torn between bouts of sorrow, regret and irrational anger. Twice she'd gotten up, stormed to the door and gripped the knob, ready to march back into Donatello's room and tear into him. Every cuss word she knew, and a few that Raphael had inadvertently taught her, danced along the tip of her tongue. Her teeth clenched and her face grew hot with indignant fury.

_Who was he to treat her that way? Just because he was a little different didn't give him the right to humiliate her._

But each time she'd found herself standing there ready to turn the handle and storm off to his room, all at once a feeling of deflation would overcome her. The strength would flee from her legs and she'd retreat. Crawl back to her bed. Weak limbed. Sick at heart. Sick to her stomach.

She'd lain there all night considering how it had gone so terribly. Pondering how she may have handled her confession better. And a night's worth of musings had only left her empty and confused.

For each time she argued with herself that it wasn't his fault – not really: he was not himself, he needed time still, to heal mentally and emotionally, besides physically, she heard that bitter laughter ring inside her ears. She'd see again that incredulous look on his face, the strange hurt followed immediately by that disconnection in his eyes, as if he didn't know her.

_What did I say that made you look that way at me? Donnie. Oh, Donatello._

April rolled onto her stomach and gripped the pillow with both arms in a fierce hug. Her chin and lower half of her face buried in the softness, she blinked into the grey stillness of the early morning.

_Maybe if I'd waited a little longer. Told him in the morning instead of right after the fight. He wasn't himself when he went after that Kraang Bot. For a minute, I thought that he'd gone suicidal._

She pushed the ridiculous assumption away. Though what she'd felt from him at the time: a deep expanse of hopelessness; a cavern of despair. April shuddered with the memory. At the time, it had frightened her so bad. It still did.

Why wouldn't he let her help him? Why did he keep pushing her away? She didn't understand it. She never had anticipated this. This rejection.

Resting her cheek on the slightly damp pillow, she felt lost. Raw and hollow. The twist in her heart with every other beat and the strange way her chest kept feeling as though it were squeezing, squeezing, squeezing the life from her would not relent. Her body ached as if she'd been in a lengthy sparring match with Raphael. Everything hurt. Everything ached. But nothing more than her heart.

Her eyes roamed past her sleeping father to the door.

_I could've brought him breakfast in bed. I could've run out and taken a bus downtown, surprised him with his favorite espresso from Bluebird on 1_ _st_ _. If I leave now, I could still make it there and back. An offering of . . . what? What am I sorry for? Telling him I love him?_

She pinched her eyes closed. It was no use. She heard the whispering voice that had dogged her through the night come again, creeping along the edges of her reason.

_'It doesn't matter how you'd have gone about it, dummy. And you know why.'_

She sniffled. Hearing that awful laugh again. Wishing she could stop thinking about it, but unable to shut it out. Feeling angry at herself for not pulling herself together, but unable to find the strength. And the tears kept coming, even when she was sure there could not possibly be anymore. That her body had shed its reserves empty.

_'That's right. You waited and waited. You sat around in denial and now, guess what? You're too late. You've lost him.'_

And as that voice slipped between her thoughts, casting long shadows of doubt across her fragile hopefulness, fresh tears sprung to her eyes, building and burning, until they spilt down over her cheeks. No, her body had hidden stores of tears, vast quantities, it seemed.

Because no matter how she framed it inside her mind, no matter how she tried to convince herself that she'd done nothing wrong, the voice was right. What it whispered was true, wasn't it?

All this time, despite knowing exactly how she felt, she'd kept her feelings to herself. Guarded them by fear and confusion, until it was too late. She chewed on her bottom lip. Her brows puckered into a frown.

"No."

She pushed up from her damp pillow, feeling another surge of anger. Fueling her strength, temporary or not, she didn't care. Only this time it wasn't directed at Donatello, but herself. She swung her legs over the side of the cot, ran her hands through her hair, mussing it wildly and wiped her cheeks dry with her forearms.

"Get it together April," she chided under her breath. She punched her thighs. "It's not too late. It can't be." She sat up straighter, and feeling incrementally better, she rose up. She straightened the rumpled tee she'd slept in last night with a taunt yank. "Whether he likes it or not, I'm not giving up on him."

Her father stirred. He picked up his head, mumbled, voice thick and heavy with sleep, "I like when you're determined, hon, but could you be determined in another room."

"Oh, uh, sorry, Dad!" She sidestepped as his head slumped back down onto his pillow. As quietly as she could, she crept from the room, closing the door with a soft click behind her.

She turned and walked abruptly into Casey.

"OOf!"

"Oh, oh gosh, I'm sorry."

"It's all good." Casey was wearing a white t-shirt, a towel draped over his shoulders. His hair was mussed and sticking up in odds tufts. He gave her a sheepish grin. "What are you doing up so early, Red?"

She hugged herself and hoped he didn't notice the bags under her eyes that she was certain she sported. "I was going to run and maybe pick up breakfast for . . . uh, for everyone."

His grin was open and sweet. "That's really nice of you. But I think Mikey's already on it."

Her face fell, "Oh. He's up?" Only now did she hear the faint clinking sounds of pans being moved and dishes set out.

Casey nodded. He tipped his head towards her in a conspiring way, "Was going to try and sneak in a shower before everyone hogged the hot water," he sighed, resigned, "but I guess you can't beat ninjas who are used to gettin' up at the crack of dawn."

She glanced over her shoulder. "Is it Donnie in there now?"

He looked around then settled his dark eyes on her. "Yeah. I think Leo's in the dojo." He followed her down into the living room. She grabbed a sweatshirt from the back of the couch. "Want some company?" he asked as he pulled the towel from his shoulders.

She smiled and shook her head. "No, it's okay."

"C'mon, who's gonna protect you on the subway?"

She rolled her eyes.

"Besides, I'd like a couple 'a donuts."

"The truth comes out."

"I'd have still protected you from marauders."

She quirked a brow. "Marauders?"

He shrugged. "Mikey had Raph and me watching anime half the night. Raph couldn't get outta it because Mikey worked on his shoulder and felt he owed him one. Some of the dialogue may have stuck." He popped a finger into his ear and wiggled furiously as if dislodging the intruding dialogue. He removed his finger, studied it for a moment and thing vigorously rubbed his chest with both hands. "Much better." His grin spread wide and his eyes glittered with mischief.

"Gross." April couldn't help it, she chuckled. And was surprised to find she was feeling a little better. Actually, a lot better. Maybe hanging out with a friend was exactly what she needed most right now.

Though she what she really wanted was someone to talk to about Donatello.

Raphael emerged from his room in time to see April and Casey sharing something funny as they exited the lair. Together. His face darted around. He hurried into the kitchen.

"Mikey."

The youngest turned from the stove, a pair of tongs in his hand. "Yeah, bro?"

"Where are April and Casey goin'?"

He glanced over one shoulder. "Huh. No idea." He shrugged and went back to turning the sausages sizzling in the frying pan. "Didn't even know they were up." He shook his head. "I dunno about you, but last night was so epic, I'm starved. You want bacon or sausage this morning?"

Raph glared at the air in front of him. "I shoulda stopped them."

"Hm?"

"Where's Donnie? Did he see them together?"

Mikey's expression changed from mild interest to slowly perturbed. "I have no idea, dude. Donnie's taking a shower. Or he was." He cocked his head, "I don't hear the water. I guess he might've seen them go. Why?"

"Whaddaya mean why?"

"I dunno, um, why would it matter if Donnie saw them leave or not?"

"Do I have to spell everything out for you?"

Mikey blinked at the snappish tone. "Eesh, someone's a grouch this morning." But then his face softened. "Is it your shoulder? Do you want me to get you pain meds?"

"It's fine!" he hollered, rolling his injured arm up and around to prove his point, internally wincing at the pain he'd just caused himself.

With that, Raph spun on his heel, he stomped into the living room, deliberating over chasing down April and Casey or just letting it go; unable to come up with a solid reason for his intrusion on their little excursion to the topside. He gingerly cupped his healing shoulder, wrapped securely in thick bandages. It throbbed thanks to his bravado. But that didn't matter.

He couldn't make up his mind what to do. If there was anything he even  _had_  to do about it. "Dammit."

From the corner of his eye, he spotted Donatello slipping from the hall to his room.  _Shit_. Now Raphael was sure his brother had seen them go. His head whipped from the exit of the lair to his brother's room.

"Ah, hell."

He marched after Donatello. He pushed open the door, surprising his brother.

"Raph," Donnie said, Just as he was about to sit in the chair at his desk.

His brother just stared at him, taking in the circles under his eyes.

Donatello fidgeted, then resumed taking his seat. He turned to the desk and picked up the roll of gauze. He'd put some cream on the intertrigo rash that had bloomed across the area while in the bathroom. But he'd forgotten the fresh gauze in his room. He'd left the bathroom in a daze, thinking about what had happened last night with April, feeling uneasy and more than a little sick over how the events had played out, coming out into the hallway just in time to hear April laughing. With Casey practically draping his arms around her. Of course.

He'd felt momentarily furious, blind with jealous, but the instant drained away, leaving him more empty and hollow than angry. And the world awash in shades of smoke and ash.

It was no use. Casey belonged to April's world. It only made sense that they would end up together. Whatever it was that April thought she was feeling for him, would pass. Because it was borne out of an accident which lead her to the natural feeling of pity for him. And she was simply confusing that with a very real emotion. Love, it wasn't. She just didn't know that yet. But she would, in time.

And it was better for them both that he stopped her before they both engaged in something they'd have regretted with the passage of time.

A part of him wished that what April had told him last night was real. To be honest, a very large part of him. He grimaced. But that was the youthful, undamaged part of his self which was starting to dissolve away. He could feel it, an evolution of sorts. Replaced with a much better version of himself, he thought. Someone who could stare the truth in the eye and not flinch. Someone who could accept his fate like a man. He had to make the hard choice in order to survive. This was just the way it would be, for now on.

The pain in his heart would fade. Given time.

Raph's presence hung at his back like a hulking ghost. He snapped, "Something you want?"

He gripped the gauze in a fist, turning it to find the loose end. He held the tip in between his lips and unrolled a length. He held up his stump and began the awkward process of wrapping it.

Raph crossed his arms, still standing in the doorway, hovering, taking up most of the space. Breathing heavy and clearly in an unhappy state. He blurted, "April and Casey went out. I think to get some groceries or somethin'." He didn't know what they'd gone to do, but it sounded better to his ears to make something up. Something reasonable.

"Whoopee," Donatello replied dryly.

"I just thought," Raph shrugged. "I dunno, if you saw them like leaving or something and was wonderin'. Thought I'd just sort of make it clear that, you know, I dunno, everythin' was, whatever, regular."

Donatello froze for a moment, then reached for the scissors. He snipped the end and tucked it carefully in place. Then he sat back. He sighed. "And what exactly makes you think I'd care?"

"Don't you?"

"Why should I?"

Raphael stepped into the room, glancing around as he did. He moved to the bed and dropped heavily onto the edge. The springs squeaked and Donatello half-turned in his chair.

His green-eyed brother studied the floor for a bit before answering. "So, you don't care."

"No. I don't."

"Since when?"

Donatello said nothing. He'd turned to stare at the bricks behind the desk.

Raphael's eyes roved over the place, taking in the mess on the desk, the floor, near the sides of his brother's bed. Unlike the usual untidy chaos that made his brother's room, well, uniquely his own, this was different. Off. There was no order here within the disorder. There was just . . . upheaval. Confusion.

From the kitchen, Mikey could be heard calling that breakfast was ready when they were.

"You know, bro. You don't know how lucky you are."

Donatello turned slowly in his chair. His face dark. Eyes flat with indignant fury.

Raph met his furious and incredulous expression with a hard look. Without blinking, Raph said, "April has been doin' nothing but trying ta help you and all you keep doin' is pushing her away." Raph leaned forward, placing his hand against his heart, "Look, bro. I get it. I do. I get bein' mad at us, because we screwed up so bad. Nothing we can do will ever make it up to you. Nothin'."

Donatello shook his head in denial.

"But what did she ever do to ya?"

Donatello blinked and lowered his gaze to one side. "I know. And I'm not - I'm not mad, not at you or-or Master Splinter, or anyone." He sighed and rolled his eyes to the ceiling. "I'm trying. Raph. Okay? What else can I say?"

He dropped his gaze to meet his brother's. "But April," his voice caught at her name, "I-I can't deal with this . . . all this, and now, she . . . You have no idea what it's been like! Having her here, seeing me like-like this and then . . ." His voice rose, trailed off and then dropped to a whisper, "I just wish she'd just go home and leave me be." He covered his eyes with his hand.

Raph pointed at him. From between his fingers, he peered at Raphael.

"Donatello. Listen to me. That girl is crazy about you."

Donatello shook his head, looking more miserable by the second.

"Don't shut her out. Don't do that to her. You hear me? Don't you do that. Not to her. Now is not the time to act like a total di -"

Donatello slammed the side of his fist onto the desk. "Stay out of it!"

Raph clamped his mouth shut. Eyes bright and flashing.

"Will you just – please – stay out of stuff that you have no idea of what you're talking about."

He stood up, twisting his body, he motioned to the mess in the room. "No idea of what I'm talkin' about? You think I don't know what this is about? You think I don't recognize a problem like this when I see one?  _Me_? After the shit I've been through?"

Donatello's face crushed into an uncomprehending frown. His head shook and his mouth pursed as if to ask what he was going on about. But Raph cut him off.

He pressed his fingertips to his chest and leaned over, bringing his head down to Donnie's level. "I know depression when I see it."

Donatello opened his mouth to protest. Stunned by this revelation.

"No, man. Don't. I don't want to hear about it. I know you've been dealing with a lot. I can't imagine how much all this must . . . hurt. But I ain't no stranger to pain. And I gotta tell you, the only way to beat it is to fuckin'  _beat_  it. You understand me? You can't lay down on this one. You can't give up."

Donatello ducked his chin. "I'm . . . I'm not," he said softly.

"You got all of us backin' you up. And maybe you don't want that. Maybe not. But we're here. And not only us, you got someone so-so unbelievably special who wants only to help you,  _man_."

Donatello's eyes shot to the door only to return to the floor between his feet.

"You may not realize it. But you need her, bro. You need all of us. All our support to get you through." He leaned forward and Donatello jumped as Raph laid a hand upon his shoulder. Their eyes met. Locked.

"And we're gonna help you. And you're gonna make it out. You know how I can be so sure? I'll tell ya: You're too smart to let this beat you."

He squeezed until Donatello felt tears prick at his eyes but had nothing to do with Raph's grip on his shoulder. "I've never been more sure of anything in my life."

Choked up, Donatello could only nod. Dazed at this outpouring of support from his least expressive brother.

"That's right. My brother . . . no, man, my  _genius_  brother," he shook Donatello's shoulder slightly, "is too smart to let somethin' stupid like depression and a little disfigurement ruin him. No way."

Raph clapped his shoulder and then, surprisingly, he caught the back of Donatello's head and pulled it forward, planted a kiss on the top of his head and then rubbed it roughly then bopped it with the side of his fist.

With that, he wheeled around on his heel and marched to the door, calling over his shoulder, "Just don't shut her out, bro. Don't do that. Not to her."

Shocked and numb, but feeling strangely relieved, as if a great weight had just been lifted from his back, Donatello felt his mouth crack a wavering smile. Feeling reassured and a little hopeful. The funk from not sleeping all night, from worrying and going over and over again the words she'd said, melted back a bit.

He glanced around and for the first time noticed just how messed up his room had become over the past few weeks. He stood up and started to gather some of the crumpled papers, broken slides and other debris, tossing them one by one into the trash bin.

Suddenly, Raph's head popped back into the room. "Oh, and don't think I forgot about that bot. You're getting your ass in the workshop after breakfast and you're goin' to start on that prost-technotic."

"Prosthetic."

Raph pointed at him. "That's right. I just got it cleared with Leo. Me and you, bro. No training today, just tearing up one Kraang bot for the greater good."

Donatello couldn't speak. His grin spread and he nodded, feeling his heart hammering and suddenly wanting to get started on this project.

He shook his head, as Raph slapped the doorjamb and disappeared again.

"Heh, yeah." He sniffed. "Greater good."


	19. Lost Cause

_"Courage doesn't always roar, sometimes it's the quiet voice at the end of the day whispering 'I will try again tomorrow"_  -Mary Anne Radmacher

* * *

 

The mat came up like the reality of his days: hard, unforgiving. The side of his face met the floor. A flash of pain blinded him, erupting in phosphorescent blobs before fading back. What hurt more was the sting of failure, inflamed by the irritation and fatigue.

"Ugh." Donatello swore under his panting breath.

He'd come here every day for the past three weeks while his brothers ran above, training and pushing back the tide of Foot soldiers fueled by new Kraang tech. Bringing him reports and trying to make it seem as though he were still part of the team. Except for the fact that he wasn't. Not really. Not anymore.

Their actions alone proved it. They'd demanded and pleaded with him to take the time to rest. To heal. While they went on with their missions. Adapting to working as a team of three. He didn't need to be there to acknowledge it. It was as simple as basic math.

He'd agreed. With feigned enthusiasm. He could use the quiet after being cooped up in the lair for so long. Taking their concern at face value. But he saw it for what it was. The slow acceptance of the inevitable, despite Raphael's attempts at reassuring him that he was still essential. They'd already given up on him as a teammate.

Well, he'd prove them wrong.

Or at least, that was what he'd told himself when he first stepped into the dojo a few weeks ago when they'd gone out on patrol for the first time as a unit sans one. He was certain it was possible. At least, he wanted to believe. To have hope. To push forward instead of simply sinking.

He hadn't realized how deep he'd sunk until his brother had gripped him tight and dragged him from the mire. Bolstering the part of him that he'd thought had shriveled and died, pruned from him like his lost limb.

He'd grown this meek shred of faith from the ravages of his despair and depression, nursing it into the fragile, timid thing it was, but still, it was something. And he held fast to that quivering wisp as he first stepped into the dojo, bo staff in hand, heart beating fast, doubts creeping along the corners of his mind, ready to pounce.

He wanted so badly to believe in himself again. For a moment, he had.

But that was before. Before the continuous failure of trying over and over and over again. Using the most clever and innovative techniques only to prove them useless when applied to a weapon meant for two hands. It couldn't be done. Not with any real effectiveness. Not unless he wanted to simply twirl it like a baton.

That image brought a sardonic grin to his face and he couldn't help laughing despite his sinking heart.

"That's right,  _hah ha ha_ , Donatello, the team's majorette.  _Heh heh._ Dammit." He blinked back the tears that had more to do with his exertion and frustration than humor.

Donatello balled his fist and punched the mat. Sweat shimmered over his limbs as he rolled to his shell, blinking up at the ceiling. He sniffed.

A sound at the far end of the room had him tensing. He rolled upright. His eyes darting around. Scrambling, he moved to snatch the staff where it'd fallen. He cocked his arm back to fling it from him, in the hopes of fooling anyone entering that he'd come here just to work on his rehab, exercising, nothing more. Nothing as silly as trying to figure out how to use his beloved staff as an actual weapon with only the one hand.

Turtle-luck being true to form, his timing was perfect. The bo spun across the mats just in time for April to see it flying from his side.

Her shocked expression was quickly hidden behind a neutral mask.

Donatello's face darted from the bo to April and back again. He sputtered and coughed, arranging his legs into a clumsy lotus. His long legs tangled and he gave up. She'd seen. It was no use trying to pretend.

His face dropped and his eyes hit the floor in front of him, cheeks burning. He fought the urge to fidget and instead concentrated on the tiny pit-pattering of the drops of sweat falling from his forehead to the mat. The fractured patterning of the creases of the mat he sat on. He forced his breath to calm, breathing through his nose. Of all the people who could've found him here, why'd it have to be her?

_Oh, perfect._

"I, uh, was looking for you," she said.

His face shot up.  _Looking for him?_  She hadn't spoken a word to him since his reaction to her supposed declaration of her love for him. Not his best moment. But even now, just the idea caused a sharp reaction of rejection both in his heart and mind.

She was gripping and pulling at the fingers of one hand with the other. Then, as though deciding something, she stepped further into the room. Towards him.

He watched her with his eyes, keeping his head down. Feeling a curl of trepidation and an irrational sense of being cornered. When she stopped just before him, he fought the urge to lean away from her.

He blinked and went back to staring at the mat in front of him, too keenly aware of her staring, suffocating him with expectation. But he had nothing to say to her. His mouth dry. His mind a blank.

She dropped to sit next to him and he started. "The guys were out, otherwise, I would've just given the parts to Raph."

He looked at her uncomprehendingly.

"For the project you two have been working on." Her eyes darted to his stump, then back to his face. "For the prosthetic."

"Oh." He worked his tongue around his mouth and said nothing more.

The prosthetic, if there ever would be one, was still a distant dream. Frustration returned with an iron grip on his throat. He didn't want to work on something that may or may not be effective.

He wanted to be out there  _now_. Fighting alongside his brothers. Where he belonged. But they didn't need him, did they? Why was he even trying?

After all, Casey could easily fill the void. In more areas than one. Involuntarily, his gaze shot to April at that thought. His throat worked. He closed his eyes and blew out a sigh.

They sat in uncomfortable silence. The wall clock ticked the seconds away and Donatello shifted. Made to get up when she stopped him with a question.

"You were training?" she offered with a half-hearted motion towards his abandoned bo staff across the room.

"Ha," he rolled back on his bottom and looked away. "Not exactly. No. I wouldn't go so far as to call it that. I wouldn't be so generous," he spat the last word.

She digested that. Eyes askance, thinking.

Donatello watched her, head tilted slightly and he suddenly felt the weight of guilt pull at his stomach. They were still friends, weren't they? He wanted that, didn't he? This girl, sitting here, the one who'd meant everything to him at one point, she hadn't gone away, even after all his cruel attempts at pushing her away. She remained, stubborn and perhaps, foolishly, his friend.

And friends didn't hurt each other without trying to mend things. Not if they wanted to remain friends. And he did. The sudden desperate urge to fix things between them overwhelmed his earlier feelings of frustration at his non-existent progress. Scattered the misplaced jealousy he'd felt at thinking of Casey replacing him in the team and in April's life. None of that mattered. Not when his friendship was at stake.

He wiped his brow with the back of his wrist.

He cleared his throat and brought her attention back to him.

"April," he started and coughed lightly, "I want to, that is, I-I should probably, uh, apologize to you, about-about the last time we talked," he choked on the word and pressed on, "I over-reacted and I'm just, really sorry if I-I did anything to hu-"

She waved her hand through the air and cut him off. "It's okay," she said all in one breath.

He blinked. "N-No. It's not okay. I just want to tell you I'm sorry for the, uh, childish display, I don't know what came over me. I wasn't in my right mind, not for a long time, I think. But I am. Really. Sorry, I mean."

She was shaking her head, mouth pressed tight in a strained smile. "Really, Donatello. Please don't. There's no need to apologize." Her voice was breathy and unlike herself. Her smile grew brittle and her eyes a bit brighter. "I," she frowned, still smiling in that vulnerable, fragile way that was making his heart beat harder and harder, "I don't know what I expected. You'd just been through hell and I shouldn't have dumped that on you. I mean, who'd do that? Why didn't I think?"

Donatello's eyes widened as she started to ramble on. He opened his mouth, but she went on.

"Even with my-my abilities, even feeling those confused, scared emotions rolling off of you, I went ahead and bulldozed everything like an idiot. I was being selfish," she said as her smile faltered and her frown deepened. "So stupid. It was so insane. What . . . I'm the one who should apologize. I'm-I'm so sorry." She cupped her forehead with one palm and her breath hitched as Donatello lifted his hand to stop her. "Oh god, I'm so stupid," she said, voice muffled.

"Stop. Don't say that. You're not . . ."

She looked up and tears danced in her bright blue eyes. "No, really, I assure you, Donnie. That was the stupidest thing I think I've ever done. Why would I think you'd believe me?"

Donatello's mouthed pressed closed. The truth was, he still didn't.

"I totally blew it."

Donatello fidgeted. He had to make this right. He needed to make it clear. This wasn't her fault, not really, not when he actually thought it over. There was a scientific explanation to this. It took him a long time to realize, but he had. And he couldn't blame her.

His chin jutted a bit as he took on a tone of professionalism, "What you experienced is a natural reaction to the situation."

She frowned, mouth hanging open slightly. "What?"

He held out his hand, palm up. Explaining.

"Your friend," he gestured to himself, his missing arm, the room in general, "was injured and in pain. You understood that I had previously, uh," he cleared his throat, "had some sort of confusion about a possibility of a r-romant- er - relationship, which was completely out of the question, as I'm well aware,  _now_ , but because of this understanding, this knowledge of my misplaced feelings for you, you formed a delusion," he modified at the flash of offensive crossing her face, "er, conclusion, I mean. One meant in the most altruistic intentions, of course, to try and make things easier on your friend. Me."

April sat in stunned silence as confusion muddied her comprehension of what exactly he was going on about.

"I don't blame you, April. And I ah-appreciate the sentiment. And I understand your motives were only good. But we have to be realistic. Anything based on," he panicked for a second, thinking he couldn't get the words out, but managed, "pity, will only lead to more heartache and pain in the future. For us both."

His breath became shallow. It was with one last effort that he squeezed the words from his lungs, "It's better this way."

He stared at her until it began to hurt and he shot his gaze to the floor. His heart was ramming against his ribs and his eyes burned. There was a lump in the center of his throat that was threatening to choke him. He suddenly found he couldn't breathe, sitting there and jumped to his feet. His legs weak, he wobbled and swayed and he rushed from the room.

April remained frozen in place. Unable to speak. Unable to breathe as terrible comprehension dawned.

# # #

The door to the lab swung open slowly. Donatello braced his hand on the doorjamb, then used it as leverage to stagger inside. He stopped before the table, his hand clutching at the wrapped stump of his left arm.

Across the long work table, the dismantled bot lay in gleaming metal pieces where he and Raphael had left it last night. He stared down at their progress. The mess of parts in scattered piles based on possible usefulness. The metal skull gazed up at him, eyes dead, but still, they cut through him. Accusing and guileless with its silence.

His ears rang with the racing of his blood. His heart hammered and his chest tightened. The walls around him pressed inwards. The ceiling crushing down.

The eyes of the bot bore into him. Unseeing and yet, they penetrated him.

The Kraang. The reason he'd met her. The instrument which brought them together. The cause of their relationship to fracture, their friendship to be threatened. The slim, ridiculous hope of love, stolen and crushed before it ever even had a chance.

The causality of failure. Heartache.

It wasn't fair. His breath hitched. His heart squeezed and strained.

With a sudden pained gasp, Donatello swept his arm across the surface, knocking everything to the floor with an enormous crash. His knees buckled and he slumped to the floor.

# # #

In the dojo, April started at the sound. Dashing the tears from her cheeks, she climbed to stand. With shaking legs, she ventured from the dojo out into the main area of the lair.

Looking around, she moved towards Master Splinter's room. She braced her hand upon the frame and slid it open to see her father and the old rat composed and seated as she had left them earlier. Mediating and calm. Serene. The process of Splinter's therapy continuing; each day seeming to be a better one for her dad. Each day a little better since they'd begun after April confided in Splinter over her father's tortured state of mind.

She backed away and sniffled. Wondering at the sound she'd heard, but afraid to seek out the source, now that she'd realized where it could've only come from, she exited the lair, deciding she needed some air.

# # #

The apartment was untidy, but the holes were patched and Casey was going to paint the living room once he had a free weekend. Between hockey practice, his vigilante work with the guys and his tattered home life, he was hardly around. The last time they'd gone to get coffee, he'd told her that everything would be okay. That she couldn't give up when things got rough. All the kind words friends say to one another when someone they care about was hurting.

And though it felt good at the time, it wasn't quite enough. It wouldn't be enough until things between her and Donatello were made right. And now, she felt, that just might never happen.

She roamed the rooms in a daze. Numb and shaken. Part of her mind disconnected as the other part lingered back, still trapped on the mat in the dojo, still reeling from Donatello's revealing how he'd taken her declaration weeks ago. It made sense now, his laughter. Horrible sense.

_How could it have ever gone so wrong?_

In the kitchen, she flipped through the mail, noting the past due notices on several utility bills and sighed. The year was coming to a close and she'd need to pick up a job, soon. Her father's state of mind needed more time to heal. He'd taken an extended leave of absence from work and there was no telling if Master Splinter's interventions with him were going to be enough to make him whole. There was a very real chance that her father may never be able to go back to anything resembling a normal life.

A gentle tapping broke her train of thought. For an irrational moment, as she raced to the window leading out to the fire escape she thought it was Donatello, coming to say he'd realized that it wasn't pity after all. That he'd misread her intentions. That he'd want to try at a relationship if she could forgive him, if she still wanted him.

And oh god, she did. She  _did_.

She flung the curtains wide and pulled open the window, only to stand back, shoulders slumping. "Oh, it's you."

Leonardo blinked at that. "Er, is this a bad time?"

She noted that he held two paint cans in his grip. She shook her head, clearing the cobwebs. "Sorry, Leo." She stepped aside. "C'mon in." She frowned at the paint cans. "I thought Casey was going to do that."

"He brought them over to our rendezvous point. Asked if one of us could drop them here. Said something about this weekend?"

"Oh, okay. Well, thanks."

"Mikey and Raph are with him, skateboarding."

She raised her brows in surprise. "Skateboarding."

He nodded, setting the cans down. "Uh-huh."

"You're letting them screw around instead of patrolling?" She stepped forward and to his surprise, placed her palm against his forehead, checking his temperature. "Hmm, no fever."

He chuckled and brought his hands up. "I'm fine."

"You sure about that?"

"Actually, I do have an ulterior motive."

She leaned back and crossed her arms, growing serious with his tone.

"I was hoping to talk to you . . . about Donnie."

# # #

"So," Leo said, sitting back from the cup of cooled tea on the coffee table before him, "he thinks it's pity." He looked at her, eyes intense in the soft way he had.

She nodded morosely. "Why?" she asked, though she'd already figured out the answer.

What else would he have thought? Considering that she'd never given him any indication that she'd felt anything remotely like that before and then, this tragedy happens and suddenly she admits that she loved him? With a soft groan, she dropped her head into her hand.

"Because," Leo said, "it's what I would feel. And that would be worse," he shook his head, "worse than anything else." He leaned forward and braced his chin on his finger and thumb. "He's come so far. Really far, actually. I was afraid, for time there, that we were losing him."

April hugged herself. "I think we were," she croaked. She rubbed one eye and straightened up, clearing her throat. "But Raph, he must have gotten through to him. Where neither of us could."

Leonardo looked away. The guilt evident on his face.

"We can't always be exactly what our family needs us to be. That's why you can't take all the blame in this, Leo." She reached out to squeeze his forearm.

He turned his face, eyes bright and said, "I-I think he hates me." At her shocked and hurt look, he added, "At least a part of him does. He blames me. And I don't fault him for doing so. I failed him in every way."

She shook her head. "No, Leo," she swallowed at the lump in her throat, "Not just you." She gave him a strained smile, eyes welling.

"I can't," he stopped and shook his head. Staring out in front of him, he tried again, "I don't know what to do from here. I don't have a plan. I'm-I'm stuck." He glanced at her. "What do we do from here?"

April blew out a shaky breath. Her eyes worked their way from his intense gaze so full of fear and sorrow, up to the patched holes in her living room wall, to the kitchen where the bills lay, piled, to the cold tea in front of them. She shook her head, at a loss.

"Leo," she said finally, "we can only do what we've always done."

He considered that. Their eyes met.

"Just keep supporting him," he offered, in a questioning voice.

She nodded.

Leonardo reached over and took her hand in his. He placed his other hand over it. "Don't give up."

She shook her head and made the smallest squeak, unable to speak.

"He'll come around, April. He'll see the truth. Eventually."

Her mouth broke into a wavering smile. "I'm not so sure. I-I think I've messed up pretty bad. It may be a," she gulped, "lost cause at this point."

"I believe in you," he said, shaking her hand slightly. In a firm tone, he added, "I believe in you and Donnie."

His earnestness struck straight to her heart and a tear slipped free. "How can you?"

He smiled and it was gentle and full of self-recrimination. The sight of it eased her spirit somewhat.

He shrugged slightly, "I have a soft spot for believing in lost causes."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aw, Leo.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed this latest chapter. And I thank you for all the patience in waiting for updates. My vacation was wonderful - the redwoods were amazing. Just awe-inspiring. And I'm feeling very blessed to get to mark that off my bucket list - something I wanted to do since I was just a little girl.
> 
> I plan on writing more next week and getting further updates out to you for my other stories. Again, you guys make me love writing fanfiction; your support and kind words fuel me. I appreciate you all so very much!


	20. Mending Bridges

_"Only know you've been high when you're feeling low_

_Only miss the sun when it starts to snow_

_Only know you love her when you let her go._

_And you let her go."_  –Let Her Go, Passenger

* * *

 

The delicate steel tendons retracted, pulling the forefinger down towards the rise of the palm, followed closely by the second digit until a loose fist was created. The motion was not as smooth as he'd hoped, not as firm a hold, not as precise as the machinations of muscle, sinew and bone.

But it was getting there.

Donatello concentrated, firing the muscles in his chest and upper left deltoid to direct the nerve impulses to the coordinating metallic limb; resulting in a jerking, but successful unfurling of the shining fingers. Five, not three, something else he'd have to adjust to.

He did it again, watching, concentrating; listening to the fragmented whirr of the gears turning.

Open.

Close.

He sat back, twisted and with his right hand, typed the notes into his laptop. The clumsy tapping had given way to a still slow, but much more accurate typing. Splinter had been right. Given time, hard work and patience, one could adapt to just about anything.

He scanned what he'd typed and frowned, scrolling with a flick of his index finger. Scanning the long list of dates and the corresponding notes. Sighing through his nose, he pushed away at the flutter of frustration in his chest.

The electrodes were doing their job, more or less, but the neural interface he'd been hoping for was still a long way off. Maybe never.

Probably never. Probably.

"Yeah. This is about as far as I get," he murmured and clicked to close the tab. With the help of his elbow, he closed the top of the computer down. He rested his palm against the warm surface, thinking. The cold prosthetic arm lay in his lap, chilling the top of his thigh.

Mikey had been a wonder in the lab with him. And in these past few months of experimenting with attaching the Kraang bot's arm to his body with all back-tracking failures, reactions and physical therapy, not to mention helping him with treating the bacterial intertrigo that plagued him from time to time from being in the sewers, Mikey had learned a lot.

Don was certain that if anything ever happened to him, Mikey would step in as family medic with ease. He had steady hands, and had an intense focus on even the smallest details when he wanted to.

But severing and then reattaching nerves was a bit out of his little brother's scope of expertise.

Not to mention that he wasn't exactly comfortable with the idea of Mikey or anyone else besides a skilled neurosurgeon implanting micro-scale electrodes to his brain. He'd do it himself – a sardonic grin danced across his mouth - but decided that surgery done on oneself, particularly on one's own brain, was beyond even his abilities.

"Heh," he breathed.

So, implanted neuro-interfaces were a no-go. Biomechatronics was out of their league.

He glanced at the prosthetic attached to his left shoulder; the jerky movements as he lifted it and unfurled the metal fingers. This would have to do.

Donatello slid his laptop across the surface of his desk to the rear and went back to examining the robotic arm that he and Raph had spent the better part of sixteen months assembling. A solid year of dismantling the components, putting it back together correctly, and learning how the technology could be adapted as a workable limb. Then another six months of one step forward, two steps back in attaching and making it work.

Mikey was always there, cheering him on, even when Raph had had his fill of watching the pathetic progress he'd made. But he understood. It was hard on Raph, seeing him so weak, so close to throwing in the towel; time and again. Don could barely look at himself in the mirror some days; filled with self-loathing and disgust at his poor progress. Just when it seemed he'd never get it . . . that it was all for nothing . . . that he should just give up . . .

"Here I am," Don murmured.

The metal gleamed in the low light as he moved it slightly, twisting from side to side.

"It's not so bad, I guess."

He picked up a rag and polished away some traces of oil, rubbing until the chrome glistened.

The door to his room opened and Mikey leaned in. "Hey bro, you up for a run? Just a quick one, you know, 'cuz tonight I gotta finish wrapping all the gifts I got for you guys – oh man, just wait 'til you see what I got for you! And you know Raph's gonna need help. He always waits 'til the last minute."

Mikey chuckled. "Tomorrow's Christmas Eve and I think he's still got shopping to do, like, for everyone."

Donatello considered and nodded. "Be a minute."

With a flash of a 'thumbs up', Mikey scurried off, whistling Frosty the Snowman.

His eyes drooped. He craned his neck from side to side, stretching.

He was stiff from training with Master Splinter yesterday. Their sessions in the dojo were back on something like a regular time-table and despite the lag in training during his time healing and building the prosthetic, Splinter had not gone easy on him. Even the times he'd tried to use the missing limb as an excuse not to push. Every time Splinter found new ways to push him even further than he thought he could handle. He sighed and rolled his eyes.

It wasn't as though he weren't grateful.

"Grateful!" He snorted and shook his head. A bittersweet smile tugged at his mouth.  _No,_  he thought, a shadow darkening his face,  _in the end, I have everything to be grateful for._

Lucky to be alive, for one. The odds weren't good that he'd survive that severe bout of infection after his initial amputation. But he had, thanks to the second amputation done properly and with Mikey's careful instructions followed accurately. But also the round-the-clock aftercare with each of his family members taking turns to monitor him.

"And in thanks, I treated them all like trash." He sighed.

He was lucky to have had a family that tolerated him at his worst. Lucky that he had a father who knew how to push him to be his best even when he thought there was nothing close to that inside him any longer.

He was lucky that Casey had managed to scavenge any and every piece of electronics that he thought Don might need. Lucky that he had a little brother so intent on learning everything he could about first aid and medical treatment if only to help him get better. He was lucky that Raph hadn't stormed off for good the countless times he did, only to return, abashed, gruff as always, but stubbornly refusing to give up on their little project.

He glanced at the door.

He was lucky that Leo still spoke to him.

Don's head ducked.

He rose up and stepped out to join his brothers on a run, banishing the image of her face as he broke out into fits of uncontrollable laughter, but unable to lose the nagging regret for the one thing he could not claim gratitude for.

None whatsoever.

He slammed the door behind him.

# # #

The snow fell light and in drifts of spiraling cones. Rising only to disperse once again in a powdery shower. The air was crisp, and between the scrolling clouds above, the black sky peered, deep and speckled with stars.

From the iced, metal parapet of one wing of the building, Leo stood leaning, peering down.

He watched Raph cut around the promenade in front of the deserted courthouse. He balled a thick wad of snow into a solid softball-sized globe, smoothing it while positioning himself to launch it at Mikey's head.

Mikey came in for a sliding landing as he leapt from the concrete stair's banister, curving his body around as his bare feet smoothly skidded through the snow across the ice beneath. A wide grin spread across his face.

Raph cocked his arm and Mikey caught the movement. He lobbed a snowball from his side before Raphael had a chance to throw his own – striking him directly in the snout. Mikey hollered derisively about his brother's poor ninja skills. He ducked the return fire, cackling with glee and mocking his brother's even poorer aim.

"Shouldn't you tell them to pipe down?" Donnie asked as he moved to stand next to Leonardo.

Leo stared down at the two, now racing around in a frenzied game of tag, only with more violence guaranteed for the one tagged. Raph's left foot slipped and his leg went sideways as he scampered after Mikey, growling.

Leo smirked and knocked a few snowflakes from the top of his nose before he crossed his arms. "Nah, let them play."

"Who are you and what have you done with my up-tight brother," Don quipped.

Leo breathed a laugh, glanced sideways and caught Don's eye. Don's smile shrank as their eyes met. Leo swiftly looked away, cleared his throat and edged a step away, putting space between them. After a half-beat added awkwardly, "Almost Christmas."

"Leo. Listen, I-"

Mikey cackled again and there was the distinct sound of a curse word drowned out by an infuriated growl.

"Maybe I should interrupt before Raph gives Mikey a black eye or broken bone for Christmas."

"Wait. I just – can you just leave them for a minute. I wanted . . . to talk to you. Since we're up here alone for the most part."

Leo fidgeted, looking as if he were honestly deliberating. He shot Don a fleeting look and gave a sharp nod.

"What's up?" he asked, voice tight.

Donatello braced himself. Since leaving his room over an hour ago, and really, long before then, he'd wanted to mend what was still broken between him and Leonardo. Out of all his brothers, Leo remained the only one who he hadn't really had the opportunity to apologize to. Not really. His brother was notorious at skirting uncomfortable topics; often deflecting or distracting with training runs or whatever else he could use to make it seem as though he was either busy or simply unconcerned.

Don knew it was an act. A poor one at that.

He opened his mouth, but found nothing came out. Only a gust of frosted breath. His eyes widened and for a brief moment feared he was going to go the coward's way out and not cross the bridge before him. But he had to make things right.

Leo could pretend all he wanted that nothing was wrong between them. But Donatello didn't want to play this game any longer. He wanted to make peace with the past two years. The only way he could more forward was by settling this.

He brushed his fingertips against the front of his throat and cleared it. Then his hand wandered up to his left shoulder, wrapping around the join between the icy metal and his equally icy flesh. He shuddered. He tried again.

Leo, looking slightly panicked, spoke up before he could say anything. "It's colder out here than I thought. We should get back."

Don frowned, staring at the steadily building piles of snow along the edge of the parapet. From the corner of his eye, he saw Leo move to whistle to his brothers.

"H-Hang on, Leo."

Leo turned his head, lowering his arm. The expression he wore was one of resignation.

"Look, I know things aren't," he struggled, "right."

Leo's brow quirked. "Somethings wrong? Is it the cold? I knew it. Mikey told us that temperature extremes would be hard on you, dammit, I knew this run wasn't a good idea. What the hell was I thinking? Let's head back."

Don shook his head, "No, that's not what I'm talking about. I mean," he swallowed, "right, as in . . . You know, since, well, since everything. Happened."

His face fell, blanked. A careful mask. He stiffened and leaned back onto his heels, crossing his arms. A defensive stance that Donatello knew Leo wasn't even aware that he was doing.

"I should have brought this up a long time ago. I wanted to. I did." He looked around before he turned back to his brother. "But," he searched Leo's impassive face, "I could never find the right time."

"Don, everything is fine." The last word bit off with a poor attempt at a chuckle. Leo shrugged. "Really."

"No. You're wrong about that. I'm talking about that night. When I lashed out at you. It was out of line. Beyond out of line, actually."

Donatello could see his brother trying to pretend as though he wasn't sure what he was referring to, and he fought the urge to roll his eyes. Leo was not good at pretending. Or lying. Leo fidgeted, a soft frown flickered between his eyes.

"I don't –" He shook his head but Don went on.

"Leo, c'mon. I need to say this. Will you just – listen?"

Leo grew still.

"That night . . . I was out of my mind with-with pain and I was so scared. It's no excuse. I just want you to understand. I-I wanted something, someone, to hurt."

Leo shook his head briefly and moved his hand through the air. Don ignored him.

He plowed on, "And you were there, looking so-so guilt-ridden. And I just jumped on that vulnerability." Donatello grimaced. He shook his head in disgust. "You were an easy target. And I struck out. It wasn't fair. It wasn't right. But I want you to know, really to know, that I never meant a word of what I said."

Leo's jaw jumped and his expression was waffling between compassion and frustration. "Don, it's," he coughed and shook his head again, blinking hard and crossing his arms tightly across his chest. He glared at the ground.

"Look, what I want to say," Donatello swallowed roughly. "I'm sorry. God, Leo. If I could take it back," he ran his tongue across his bottom lip, "if I could take every stupid, poisonous word back that I said to you that night, I would. I wish so much that I could."

Leonardo uncrossed his arms, raising his hands with a sharp movement, as though cutting off anything else his brother might go to say. "It's okay. Donnie. Please. It's nothing to apologize for. It's nothing," he insisted firmly.

Don cocked his head and eyed Raph and Mikey now rolling in the snow wrestling, faces pinked from the cold and snow.

"I can't say that I never meant to hurt you," he said, voice cracking.

Leo looked up sharply.

"Because, the truth is: I wanted to hurt you. You and Master Splinter, I sort of blamed. For everything. And," he smiled bitterly, "I knew what I was doing. Knew exactly what I was saying. I said the worst possible things I could think of," he moved closer to his brother and Leo stood his ground. "Terrible things meant to wound and hurt."

He reached out and hesitantly took Leo by the shoulder. He locked his gaze on Leo, eyes bright.

"But I'm so sorry," he whispered.

Leo lifted his hand to cover Donatello's. His voice was low, hoarse with emotion, "If I could have taken your place, taken the blow, the suffering . . . Donnie. I would have."

"I know," Donatello croaked.

"I wish it had been me." Leo squeezed Donnie's hand painfully, "I'm sorry I failed you - when you needed me most."

Donnie shook his head, choked out, "Wasn't your fault."

"Splinter was . . . unsure. We were all so frightened that you were going to . . . I should have listened to Mikey. He knew – he knew better."

Donatello held his gaze for a second, then dropped his head as he strained against something. Suddenly, a giggle burst from between his lips. It turned to strangled giggling.

Leo tipped his head suddenly, then glanced around with darting eyes. He released Don's hand so his brother could wipe at his eyes.

"S-Sorry," he sputtered and gulped, only to snort and burst into renewed chortling as he buckled forward, " _bwhahah, hehehe, ah_ , ju-st never th-thought,  _hehahaheh, ah ahah_ , I'd hear you-you say that."

Leo's brow twitched as the corners of his mouth quirked. "Heh,  _heheh_." He braced his hand on his hip, looking out into the night, then down at Mikey sitting on Raphael's shell and drumming his brother's head like a bass drum in time to his hollering Jingle Bells. "Yeah, I guess that does sound a little weird."

"More,  _hah ha_ , more than a little. I wish I'd recorded that.  _Ahaha_ , Mikey will never believe you said that."

"Let's not share this," Leo said through a wry grin. "He gives it to me enough over killing me at those video games."

Don gave him a thumbs-up. Leo's face split into a wide grin as Donatello tried to compose himself only to fail. Before he knew it, Don was bent over his knees and Leo had one arm wrapped around his shell, the both of them laughing like lunatics. They fell over into the snow, pushing at one another until; finally, the bursts of laughter subsided to intermittent giggling and the occasional snigger.

"It's good."

Donatello looked over at Leo, who was smiling, looking out into the night as the snow fell in thicker waves, covering their tracks, filling in the gaps they left behind, making the expanse whole and clean.

"What's that?" Don asked. "Us?"

Leo turned his head, eyes downcast. He reached over and took Don by the left shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze. "Hearing you laugh," he said, dropping his hand away.

"Oh." Don shrugged, glancing out into the darkness where Leo was staring. "Yeah. Feels good."

"And," Leo added, making Donnie turn his gaze to meet Leo who was now looking intently at him, "We were always good, bro. Always will be. No matter what."

Don gave him a wavering smile, feeling a sudden, large lump form in his throat. "Oh. Well. That's . . . good to know."

Leonardo climbed to stand and offered Don his hand.

Donatello looked at it, then took it with his right. Leo helped him up.

"You're like ice."

"Yeah, the metal conducts the cold pretty effectively," he said, trying to ignore the catch in his throat and hoping his brother didn't notice. He chuckled weakly, "Just like Mikey told you."

"Heh. Yep."

"He's a smart kid."

"Had a good teacher." Leo leaned over the parapet and whistled to his brothers. "Let's go home."

# # #

Across the rooftops, four shadows sped. Leaping over and under one another. One fell back a bit as they cut through a familiar neighborhood. Raphael, tonguing the fat lip that Mikey had given him during their snowy battle, slowed to a stop.

He looked to see Donatello stopping to stare at an apartment building across the street. He followed his brother's line of sight. He ground his teeth.

April's apartment.

The shades were drawn, but the Christmas lights glittered in merry, blinking hues, frosted by the snow, illuminated by the soft amber glow from inside. Raph's face darted back to Don who hesitated a little longer before starting away. Head tucked between slumped shoulders.

The look on his face pained Raph, making his heart pinch in a way that stole his breath. He felt himself reach out to his brother only to drop his arm as Don moved past him. He turned and watched him, feeling his gut churn.

What could he do to fix this? What could he say? Nothing. It was his stupid brother's fault anyway, for pushing April away, ignoring her for the most part whenever she'd come over to hang out and just being an overall idiot. Now Don had to deal.

_Yeah, only Donnie's had nothing but a shitty hand dealt from the start._

His phone vibrated. Raph swore under his breath. He thumbed the screen to see Casey's text asking if he wanted to hang. Maybe he needed to get some space between himself and his brother. Maybe he'd come up with something like a fresh perspective with a few beers in him. He had presents to wrap, but Mikey could do that for him later, no problem. Besides, Mikey's new controller was already wrapped and neatly tied up in a hundred knots and stuffed securely under his bed.

Raph turned and chased after the others. He caught up to Leo and called out, "'M goin' to see Casey."

Leo's footsteps faltered. "Wha- ? Raph, no! Splinter told us to get –" He turned to see the empty expanse of the roof.

Mikey shouted, wrapping his arm around Don's shoulders, "He's already gone, dude. Let's move! My shell has icicles growing along the bottom! Amirite, Donnie? Man, you're like ice-man. I mean, not like the comic dude, but like, actual ice." He whistled to Leo.

"Right. Let's go." With a huff, Leo chased after his two siblings.

# # #

Casey positioned the crate on a slight diagonal, then changing his mind, moved it flush against the wall. Raph crawled through the window opposite, rapping his knuckles on the window frame.

"Candy Gram," he joked.

Casey turned. "Hey, man!" They bumped fists in greeting. Casey towering over his friend, having gone through a growth spurt over the last few years. "That was fast."

Raph shrugged. "We were out."

He looked around the tiny, three room apartment. Two plastic crates made up one side of the room, next to them were scattered comics and magazines as well as two twenty-five pound dumbbells. What might have once been a bean bag lay in a deflated mass near a mound of sport's equipment and a golf bag. Casey's mask dangled from the end of one hockey stick. To the left was an doorway which led to the closet-sized bedroom and next to that what made up the galley-style kitchen and the cubby where the toilet sat. Raph spied a folding chair leaning against the wall near the kitchen.

"See my new throw pillows?" Casey asked as he leaned over and grabbed two lumpy, musty pillows from next to the wall near the bean bag. One was black with tiny skull and cross bones running diagonally across the surface, the other was a floral print. He slammed them together and a cloud of dust rose up. The distinct scent of wet dog hung in the air.

Raph leaned back, covering his nose. "This place is coming together nicely." He eyed a hole in the plastic and dug at it with his fingertip, then rubbed his thumb and finger together. "Great ambiance. Nice. If your a roach or a rat."

"Then maybe your dad would like to be my roommate."

Raph feigned throwing a punch.

"You said it, not me!" Casey raised one hairy arm in defense and laughed. "Joke all you want, bro. It's still all mine. I think your jealous." He threw the pillows on top of the crates and flopped back, bracing his arms behind his head. "Home sweet home."

Raph smirked, "Gotta admit, a little privacy would be sweet." He sat on the floor, shaking his head when Casey offered him a seat on the adjoining crate. He pulled a motorcycle magazine over, sliding it across the worn carpeting. He flipped to a random page and propped his cheek up with the heel of his hand.

He glanced up, eying his friend. "Seriously," he said, straightening up, "I'm glad you got yourself outta there."

Casey draped one leg horizontally over his opposite knee. He picked at the frayed hem of his jeans. "Only a matter of time before those scams caught up to the old man." Casey nodded. "My sister's set with my grandma. I helped them move the last of the stuff yesterday. Good school district, too. So, I hear."

Raph nodded, then went back to the magazine. Casey got up, stepped into the kitchen and returned with two beers. He handed one to Raph who took it without looking up.

"Old Rex is gonna give me more hours at the shop. Says I'm a fast learner."

"Cool."

"Actually, he's got his daughter running the place, she put in the good word for me. Think her name's Gabby. Gabrielle, I think. She's cool. But, yeah, I could use the extra dough."

"Yeah, get some actual furniture."

Casey glanced around, scratching at the dark stubble on his cheek. "A t.v. would be nice."

"Or some kinda sound system."

Casey closed his eyes - seeing it. "Yeah man, all in good time. It's gonna be awesome."

They sat in silence for a beat, sipping the beer. Lost in thought.

"So, uh," he started and his gaze roamed the room, looking everywhere but Raph, finally settling on the bottle in his hand where he picked at the label. "I wanted to ask your opinion about something."

"Yeah?" Raph cocked his head, but stared down at the Harley Davidson taking up a two page spread. A new model. Sharp as hell. The 2015 V-Rod Muscle model with its 122 horsepower and 86 Ib-ft of torque. His eyes roved over the gorgeous chasis; black leather and gleaming chrome. What he wouldn't give to ride a beast like that.

He wondered what Splinter would say if he told him he wanted that for Christmas. He imagined Splinter nodding serenely, taking him down the tunnels to a large item beneath a tarp.

"My son," he says as he reaches down and lifts the edge, yanking hard for the big reveal. "It is yours!"

Raph felt the surge of a joyful thrill run through him as the V-Rod appeared next to his father, tears of unbelieving joy burning his eyes.

But suddenly, the image shattered. He winced. He looked up sharply at Casey who was staring at him with an expectant expression.

"Uh, you just say somethin'?" Raph glanced around, wondering what had spoiled his haze of nirvana.

"Yeah, man. I did." Casey frowned, face darkening as he leaned forward on his bent knees. "Haven't you heard I word I said? For fuck's sake." He stood up at Raph's blank look and started to pace, stepping on the page of the magazine.

Raph leaned back to make more room. "Well, excuse me for tuning out your rambling."

"Oh, great. Me spilling my guts is rambling." He took a long draught from the bottle and wiped his mouth. "I shouldn't have even bothered asking. I'm gonna do it anyway. Whether you think it's a good idea or not."

Raph raised the bottle to his mouth, moving to shrug off his friend's ire, but something in Casey's tone held him back. His hand froze. "Do what, exactly?"

Casey sighed and all the fury was suddenly gone. His shoulders slumped. He turned. His face worried and yet, strangely hopeful. "I'm gonna, you know, ask April out. Like, officially. Romantically, whatever. The real deal. No more friendship stuff. If she's interested. But only one way to find out, I guess." He huffed a nervous laugh.

Raph froze. Barely moving his lips, he asked, "Come again?"

Casey ran his hand through his hair. "We've been friends a long time, you know? And these last few months, with her dad getting work at the library and me driving him home, we've," he shrugged, "gotten close. I can feel it." Casey straightened up. His blue eyes hardened.

"Don't look at me like that, man."

"Like what?" His voice was a warning whisper.

"Like I'm some kinda criminal. Or, I dunno, like I'm betraying you or some shit!" Casey hollered. He braced one hand against his chest. "I'm not the ass here. I backed off. Okay? I never wanted to get between anything with-with your brother and April. But, dude, it's been like, what? Nearly three years now. And nothing has happened."

He slapped the side of one thigh, then pointed at Raph with the hand holding the beer bottle. "I'm just saying. April doesn't deserve –"

Raph was on his feet, Casey's shirt balled into a tight knot in his fist. He slammed the young man into the wall. Tiny bits of plastic fluttered over their heads. The beer bottle dropped from Casey's grasp and clunked onto the floor, rolling and spilling the remaining dregs in an arching stain.

 _"She don't deserve what,"_  Raph snarled, rearing him back a little only to slam him once more,  _"exactly."_

Casey writhed, then glared into Raph's eyes. He screwed up his face and hollered, "Being strung along!"

By increments, Raph's eyes widened. He released Casey and stepped back. His head low between his shoulders, panting slightly. He wouldn't look at his friend.

"Am I wrong? I ain't. Yeah, that's right. You know it. I know it." Casey smoothed his shirt and picked up the bottle. He marched the short distance into the kitchen and threw it into the trash can where it shattered. He reentered the room and drove his hands into his pockets. "It ain't happening between them. Never will."

They fell quiet and Raph could only hear his heart pounding in his ears. He wanted to punch someone. Particularly, his friend. But what held him back was that Casey wasn't wrong. That only pissed Raph off more. His eyes narrowed as his breath came in puffs from between his gritted teeth.

Quietly, Casey said, "And I think it's only fair that I got my shot."

Raph's dark glare rose from his lowered head; scowling. It took all his self-control not to pummel the man to pulp. The edges of his vision was going red.

"It's what's fair, man. That's all I'm saying."

Raph huffed and turned to go with a grunt.

"Raph. C'mon, man."

He jumped up onto the windowsill, crouching there like a gargoyle. Head low. Shoulders tight. " _Nothin's_  been fair," he said. A tremor of impotent fury swept through him. "Not for Donnie."

And with that, Raph disappeared into the night.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: So, I wanted to end it nice and even on Chapter 20, but son of a gun, I just had so much to squeeze in! I don't think you mind having one more chapter in this story to read, now do ya? XD
> 
> Thanks so much for the support and lovely reviews.


	21. Time Heals

'I had the strangest feeling  
your world's not all it seems  
So tired of misconceiving  
What else this could've been.

I don't even know if I believe – I don't even know if I believe – I don't even know if I  _believe_  
Everything you're trying to say to me

So open up my eyes  
Tell me I'm alive -  
This is never gonna go our way  
If I'm gonna have to guess

what's on your mind.' –Believe, Mumford & Sons

* * *

* * *

The van pulled to a halt in front of the library's circle drive. Mr. O'Neil patted his shirt with both hands, a look of panic flitted across his features.

"Uh," he said, glancing up at his daughter who sat behind the wheel.

"Your tag's on your belt loop," she said. "Remember?"

He relaxed back into his seat with a weak laugh. "Yes." His fingers played with the laminated card identifying him as an employee. He shook his head. "I forgot I put it on before we left."

"Happens to us all," April said, doing her best to mollify her father's fears; his doubt. "Casey will pick you up later, okay?"

He gazed out the side window, watching patrons slush through the ankle-deep snow, clutching books.

"Okay, Dad?"

April's fingertips brushed his shoulder and he started. He nodded rapidly. "Right. Yes. Casey. Ten o'clock. When the library ends. I mean, when-when my shift ends, heh."

April gave a short nod of encouragement. "Your shift's over at eight tonight, remember? It's Christmas Eve so the library closes a little early."

He closed his eyes. "Yes. That's correct. Christmas Eve. My shift ends at eight. And I wait at the front door for Casey, though, just like always."

She gave him a gentle smile. "That's right."

"And he'll drive me around to see the lights?"

"If you'd like that, Dad."

With one last nod, Mr. O'Neil opened the door and climbed out. He spun around and poked his head back inside. "See you at ten."

"No -"

Mr. O'Neil laughed.

The sound of it so natural and so like himself before the mutation and the nightmare that followed, before Splinter's intense therapy and efforts with him had finally made incremental progress, that April found her eyes welling. Her heart swelled. For all the things she had to be grateful for – as well as all the things she'd lost. The feeling was something like falling asleep while crying.

She bit her lip. Forced the raw ache back to somewhere on the horizon of her heart. Somewhere distant, but not entirely vanished. The place where all her old pain moldered; lingering like a faded scar.

An imprint shaped of her enduring hurt.

"Just kidding." Her father's eyes wrinkled at the edges, twinkling with mischievous delight. "Eight. I've got it. Love you, ginger-snap."

Her voice a bit strained, she replied, "You, too, Dad."

He turned to Mikey in the back seat, sitting low to avoid detection. "Bye Mikey. Make a lot of cookies, okay? Ones with candy, too."

"Will do." Mikey gave a thumbs-up.

"Well, time for me to go to work."

"Crush it, Mr. O'Neil!"

He grinned widely and closed the door. April waited until he was inside before pulling away. Once out on the street, Mikey leaned between the front seats.

"He's doing great, isn't he?"

April nodded. She cleared her throat but found she couldn't yet trust herself to speak.

# # #

Leonardo repositioned the present. He sat back on his heels, tipped his head and changed his mind. He removed the stack of gifts and lined them up, largest on the bottom, stacking them in a pyramid shape. Better.

"M-hm," he said, satisfied.

Master Splinter sat on the sofa, staring at the glittering lights adorning the tree. Leonardo looked from his sensei to the tree and then back again.

"Mikey and Raph did a nice job this year," Leo said, "don't you think?"

Splinter smiled. "Indeed." His eyes trained to the four stockings tacked to the wall near the tree. Four. Another year with his family was whole. Another year soon beginning that he would not take for granted. Though the most challenging and terrifying trials were behind them, the shadow of those events remained; darkening the edges of their lives, sharpening the thin silver lining.

It loomed over them all.

Stroking the white whiskers at his chin, Splinter said, "Raphael came home quite late last night."

Stiffening, Leonardo replied, "I'm sorry, Master. I told him to be home with us, as you instructed."

Splinter waved a hand through the air. "I merely bring it up because he has been in the dojo this entire time."

"He has?" he asked haltingly. Leonardo cocked his head, listening. There was no sound of katas being practiced. No sound at all. If Raph had been working out or throwing a temper tantrum, he'd have heard something. "I don't hear anything."

Now that he thought about it, Raph hadn't been around at breakfast or lunch. There'd been no training today as Splinter gave them holidays to relax as they wished. He'd assumed his brother was going to eat later, but hadn't noticed him go into the kitchen. Mikey had set his sandwich in the fridge before leaving to go to April's house to bake with her while her dad was working.

An uneasy feeling weighed inside his stomach.

"No, I image you would not for he is doing naught else but sitting before the weapons' case." Splinter levelled a look at his eldest. "I saw him come home. He would not speak to me, but went straight into the dojo. He appeared unharmed." Splinter and Leonardo simultaneously looked towards the quiet dojo.

"Angry?" The question came more as a statement of resigned fact. Angry was Raphael's default.

Splinter shook his head. "No. However, something  _is_  troubling him."

Leonardo jumped up. "I'll see what's wrong."

As Leo crossed the room, Raphael emerged. A look of determination on his scowling face.

Leo stepped back. "Raph," he started.

Raphael ignored him and marched past the bedrooms down the hall to Donatello's lab. Leo followed a few steps behind. The door to the lab slammed against bricks. Leo quickened his pace, noticing that Splinter was close on his heels.

# # #

Donatello whirled around in his chair. "What the –"

Raph stormed into the space, finger raised, pointed at Donatello's face. "You!"

"Me what?" he sputtered.

Raphael's head swung back and forth, noting the papers, drafting pencils and schematics spread across the large table behind his brother. He stopped abruptly, nodded vigorously, and said, "Oh, great. Okay. Good. Working on something, huh? Next big project?"

"Uh, y-yeah," Donatello said. He noticed in the doorway beyond, Splinter and Leo hovered. "Do you, um, need something, Raph?"

Lurching past Donatello, Raph swept all the papers into his arms. He crumpled and crushed them into an enormous bolder against his chest. With a satisfied grunt, he marched past Donatello who'd jumped to his feet with a shout of dismay. Raph dumped the entire thing into the waste bucket. It tipped and fell over. The giant ball bounced to the corner.

"My work! Four hours wasted! What is wrong with you!?"

Raphael spun around. Eyes manic. In a hoarse voice, he shouted, " _Enough stallin'!"_

Donatello gaped. Before he could speak, Raph closed the distance between them, crowding him so that he fell back a step.

"You're all better now, ain't cha?!" he growled, knocking his knuckles against the metal of Donatello's prosthetic arm. Donatello took another retreating step. "This thing works. Right? You can train, work and fight, right?"

Donnie stood blinking uncomprehendingly.

 _"Right!?"_  Raph hollered in his face.

"Y-yes!"

"So why are you doing this, huh?"

"Doing what?!" Donatello's voice rose, exasperated. "I was in the middle of drawing up specs for a modification on the Shellraiser."

"No you weren't."

Donatello straightened. Any patience he had withered. "Oh? Answer me this, then.  _What the heck is that behind you!?_ "

"That's my proof."

"Proof of  _what?!_ "

"Proof," he said, as a savage grin spread across his face, "that you've been doin' nothing but hiding."

"Hiding!? Hiding from what? What are you talking about?"

Raph didn't answer, just stared at him, fuming.

Donatello fidgeted, noting for the first time his brother's bloodshot eyes and dark circles. He glanced over his shoulder at his older brother and sensei. Neither offered any clue what this was about. Their curious gazes bounced between them. Donatello said, "Why don't we just calm down, okay?"

"No. Calm is not what we need right now." Raph ran both hands over his face. He scrubbed furiously, then dropped his arms. "Listen. I was up all night. Thinking."

"Oh-kay."

"No," he said, " _listen_. I was thinking about something that Ca-, er, someone told me. About fairness. About getting a shot at something important. It was tearing me up. 'Cuz it wasn't wrong, you know? But it wasn't right, neither. Because it just wasn't fair. You know what I'm saying?"

Donatello shook his head.

Raph went on, rubbing at his temples, agitated. "I got to thinking about how something was going to happen. Before. Even though I never really bought the possibility, but the more I thought, the more I realized it was bound to happen. Like, I dunno, like fate. Destiny. That sort of crap."

Donatello frowned, mouth slightly open, trying to understand his brother's rambling.

"Now I see that I was wrong, before." He raised his hands and made a separating motion with them, moving first from one side to the other. "It was just a matter of time, because  _she_  knew. Now  _I_  know she  _knew_. All along. See? It was going to happen. It had to happen."

Raphael reached out with his fingertips, pawing at him, urging his brother to understand. Donatello nodded then shook his head, at a loss.

"Only, something else got in the way before things could actually happen. Cause and Effect. One thing and then another thing and everything got screwed. It jacked the flow."

Donatello closed his mouth. He raised his brows and said simply, "I don't follow."

Raph grabbed him by both shoulders and shook him. "That's 'cuz you ain't listenin'!" He spun his brother around and shoved him. Leonardo and Splinter parted as Donatello was roughly escorted from the lab.

"Whoa!"

"Hey, Raph," Leo said, reaching out, "take it easy."

Splinter shook his head and Leo fell back.

Raphael gave Donatello another push. The group bumbled into the common living space.

"You been so busy hiding that you forgot you even ever had a chance!"

Donatello whirled around. His metallic hand outstretched. "Stop! Stop it!"

Something was taking shape. Something firm and real in the center of his constricting chest. It matched the tendrils of thought creeping free from the shadowy corner at the back of his mind – the place where he kept only the most painful realizations locked away.

Raph jerked back. But only for a moment. He knocked the arm away. The metal flashed. Raph's eyes gleamed.

"Face it!"

_"What!?"_

"The truth!"

A beat of silence expanded around them; encapsulating everyone in the room. No one moved. The air electric. Donatello's heart was thudding in his throat, strangling him. He needed air. He stepped back, one arm raised to ward his family off. To press back the encroaching knowledge. The terrible fact that he'd been trying to ignore. All this time.

Raphael spoke, riveting Donatello in place. His voice low, breathy, as he said, "I didn't want to get involved, bro. I wanted you to take your time, thought you needed to heal. And even when I thought it was taking too long, even though you were doin' every god-damn-thing you could to ruin your chances, I stayed outta it."

Raph dropped his gaze to the floor. "But I can't stand by and say nothing. Do nothing. Not now. Not when I know and you know there's no reason to be down here hiding in your lab like a freakin' scared mouse. Pretending."

Donatello's voice came thin and reedy, "I have no idea what you're talking about."

Raph's eyes raised, met his brother's denial, his fear.  _No more hiding, bro._

"No?"

They stared at one another. Until; slowly, Donatello lowered his arms to hug himself across his torso and dropped his eyes away. "No."

"Don," Raph said. His tone took on an almost pleading note. He was exhausted and it showed in the timbre of his voice. "Are you seriously going to keep hiding until she finally gives up on ya? When whatever is left of her feelings for you just dry up and blow away for good? How can you be that stupid?"

Eyes widening, Donatello said nothing.

Splinter took Leonardo's shoulder as the boy strode forward, meaning to intervene before Raphael said something he'd regret. The old rat gave a sharp shake of his head when Leo looked up at him.

Leo pressed his mouth into a tight line. His body strained against his master's grip.

"But –"

Splinter's look hardened.

Leo snapped his mouth shut, ducked his head and relented.

"I told you a long time ago not to shut her out," Raph said through puffs of shallow breath. "And look what you did."

Donatello began to shake his head. "I didn't," he started. "You don't know what you're talking about. There was nothing there." He looked up, meeting Raph's eyes, face flushing. "Nothing real."

"You stupid jerk!" Raph surged forward, taking his brother by the upper arms. He shook him. "Don't you get it!? You're losing her! You might have already!"

Donatello yanked free, stepping back. "No!"

"Quit denying it!" Raph balled his fists at his sides. "Dammit, Donnie! April loves you!"

Donatello froze.

The proclamation rang in the silence of the lair. It seemed to rebound and ricochet off every wall - shattering the illusion that everything was fine.

"At least she did," Raph amended with a croak. "For a long time."

With a furtive glace at Leo and Splinter, Donatello saw the truth written in their expressions. Raph was right. They knew it. Hell, he'd known it, deep inside – he was just too afraid all this time to face the chance that he'd been wrong. Too fragile after everything that he'd been through. Too shaken.

So he had chosen to believe what was easiest to assume. He chose the lie over the truth. Convinced himself of it. Nearly.

He shifted, trembling slightly. His right hand cupped protectively over his shoulder where the metal connected to flesh. The question remained: Was he strong enough now? Had he ever, really been?

"And now?" Donatello asked, throat working.

Raph shrugged. "Only one way to find out. Right?"

He didn't know when he'd turned from his family, when he'd vaulted over the turnstiles at the entrance of their home, when the icy sludge of the storm drains sloshed against his ankles as he flew through the tunnels, but his legs were pumping, breath gasping, heart storming as he raced towards his last, desperate chance to make things right with the one person he loved more than anything else in the world.

# # #

Casey pulled the metal gate down over the front of the shop's rear exit. It clanged and clattered into place, vibrated against his knuckles as he snapped the padlock closed. Snow had started to fall in hushed puffs, coating every surface in downy white. There was a refreshing snip in the frigid air as it tingled across his stubbled cheeks.

Turning away from the door, he pulled his keys from the front pocket of his flannel shirt and made his way towards the rusted pick-up truck that once belonged to his father. Snow, gray and filthy in the alley, smudged against his boots, sucking at the soles with every step. The newer snow was a brighter icing against the muck.

He felt the cool flakes melting against the top of his head to run in tingling trails down the back of his neck. With a shiver and a smile, he glanced up. He stuck out his tongue, catching a few flakes before chuckling.

Tonight, after he brought Mr. O'Neil home from the library, he planned on asking April if she'd consider going out with him. His heart jumped at the thought. It would be the perfect night to start a relationship that had been a long time in coming.

He felt in his front pocket of his jeans the small hinged box. Inside: a gold locket, shaped in a four-leaf-clover. Maybe it was corny, but it reminded him of her, and also of how lucky he was to have her in his life. He'd bought it with his first paycheck, before he'd even paid the rent on his apartment. Priorities.

 _What if she says no?_ He stopped for just a second, then shook his head. Didn't matter. He had to try. At least he'd know that he'd gone for it. And maybe, in time, he could try and get over her, though he knew it wouldn't be easy.

Brushing aside any lingering doubt, he quickened his pace. Best to face his fears sooner rather than later. He was not one to prolong the inevitable. Good or bad.

The truck loomed ahead where he parked it behind the drug store next to the body shop. He jingled the keys, flopping them until the one for the door came up when he stopped. Brows furrowed, he twisted. The snow swirled, falling heavier, muffling sound, making everything have a padded, softened quality. He took a half-step away from his truck.

Head cocked, he listened as the small, distressed sound came again.

"Shit."

Dropping the keys onto the roof, he searched about. Spotting what he needed, he drove between two garbage cans, pulling a metal pipe from the pile of junk. He raced towards the chain-linked fence blocking the far end of the alley, slipping and skidding to a halt just before the L-shaped corner.

He hefted the pipe, strummed his fingers as he wrapped them around the cold shaft, closed his eyes, and said a quick prayer; then sprang into the space.

" _Goongala!"_

Two men jumped back from the woman they'd been mugging.

Before the shorter of the two men could raise his pistol, Casey pounced. He swung the pipe, hitting the thug's wrist. The gun spiraled away in the snow. The man, cradling his broken wrist to his torso, swung at Casey.

He dipped, ducking the fist. Staying low, Casey snapped the end of the pipe forward, cracked the guy's left knee. There was a pop and a crunch. The man jerked like a spastic puppet and crumpled with a screech. He rolled to one side, keening with pain.

Casey turned. He braced for the other man's attack, flicking the damp hair from his eyes, in time to see the criminal drop, then fall flat on his face into the snow.

Gabrielle wobbled where she stood, hair a riot of dark curls covering most of her face. A brick held in one hand.

Shaking off his shock, he strode forward. He tossed the pipe aside. "Gabby," he said. "Are you alright?"

She straightened and knocked her hair back from her face, revealing a swollen lip trickling blood.

Casey hissed trough his teeth. "Bastards."

She dropped the brick into the snow with a loud plop. Casey shrugged out of his flannel and moved to drape it around her shoulders. He noticed one sleeve of her sweater was stretched and torn, baring her shoulder.

"Here," he said and wrapped the shirt around her. "I thought you left earlier, otherwise I'd have walked you to your car." He felt her tremble and moved to hug her, meaning to comfort, but unsure and awkward since he hardly knew her. Not to mention, she was the boss' daughter.

To his surprise, she returned the embrace, pulling him close to her curvy body; gripping him tightly.

Too stunned to breathe, feeling things fire off inside of him that made his mind blank and his conscience stab him with guilt, Casey stared wide-eyed into the graffiti-sprayed bricks behind her, arms outstretched. After a beat, he slowly patted her back.

She held him another moment, then released him. She pulled away and sniffed.

Casey stepped back, immediately missing the soft curves of her body, the warm scent of cinnamon in her hair. He ducked his head, feeling that same stab of guilt mixed with defiant desire.

She grimaced as she padded her swollen lip with one finger-tip. She twisted and suddenly kicked the unconscious man in the stomach with the tip of her boot. The body rocked, but no sound came from the man.

"Fucker!"

"Whoa," Casey said, running his hand through his damp locks. "Remind me not to piss you off, like ever."

Gabby looked up, her fiery brown eyes softening. He swallowed, feeling his stomach dip and roll.

"You better not," she chuckled, then hugged herself. She took in a shuddering breath, blew it out and gave him a wavering smile.

Casey stared, feeling a bit dizzy.

"Thanks for the help."

"Uh, don't mention it." He dropped his chin and internally chastised himself for being so damn awkward. He was acting like some dumb-ass kid. "So," he said and coughed. "I'd rather not stick around for the cops, if that's alright with you."

She looked surprised.

Casey held up his hands. "Not that I'm in any trouble," he clarified, then under his breath, "at least, not that I'm aware of, yet, but there might be a warrant . . . or two."

Gabby was smiling at him again and he found his train of thought slipping off the tracks.

"Uh," he said, squinting in the snow. "What was I saying?"

Her brow cocked. She crouched and picked up her purse, dusting the snow from it. She pulled out her cell. "Okay, bad-boy," she said and Casey felt his stomach flip again, "if you need to make yourself scarce, I won't ask you any questions."

Casey blew out a breath of relief.

She dialed the police. "On one condition."

Casey tipped his head to one side, "And that would be?"

"You have to take me out this Friday."

Casey's mouth dropped open. "S-Sure. That, uh . . ." He ducked his head and scratched the back of his neck, ruffling his hair before shrugging. "Fair enough," he said finally, with a widening grin.

Gabby dabbed at her lip, wincing, but still she smiled. "Okay."

Casey stood for a moment, taking in just how gorgeous she was: standing in the alley, bruised but glowing, snow piling in tiny mounds in her dark curls, two thugs out cold thanks in part to her kicking ass. She was pretty amazing.

He swallowed roughly. He moved to go when she started to talk on the cell to the emergency operator. She looked up and mouthed, 'Friday.'

Casey nodded and pointed at her, then hoofed it back to his truck, heart galloping and giddy with adrenaline and something else. Something light and ethereal, but solid in his stomach, making his knees weak, but feeling strong enough to take on the entire underworld.

# # #

Mikey slid the last cookie from the spatula onto the cooling rack. He stood back and counted. "Five dozen!" he said when finished, turning to grin at April. "That and with the other cookies, we should have enough to last at least until . . ."

"New Year's Eve?" April asked.

"I was going to say tomorrow," Mikey said.

April pulled the apron from over her head. "I'd say we have a decent amount."

"I guess so."

They looked at one another, tired, but triumphant. She stepped to the stove, turned off the heat and poured the warmed cocoa into two mugs. She plopped several marshmallows into the steaming liquid. Carefully, she handed one mug to Mikey.

"Thanks again for coming over to help bake."

Mikey sipped at the foam surrounding the melting marshmallows and shrugged. "Are you for real? Nothing I love more than some lovin' from the oven."

He followed her into the living room and perched upon the arm of the sofa. April sat across from him. She sunk into the loveseat's cushion.

"Tired?" Mikey asked.

April rolled her head to look at him. "Exhausted."

"I'll bounce."

"There's no rush. You can stick around. Unless you have presents to wrap."

Mikey rolled his eyes. "I did Raph's yesterday. Boy, I called that. He's such a popcrastinator."

"Pro-crastinator," April corrected with a giggle.

"Oops, heh. Reminds me of Donnie. Always correcting my wrong words," Mikey said and sipped at his cocoa. He licked his lips and went to say something else when he stopped. "April," he set his mug down on the coffee table. "Hey, what's wrong?"

"Nothing," she said as if wakening from a daze. But the skin around her eyes grew tight, like someone fending off a persistent, but untreatable pain. "I'm just tired."

Mikey nodded, keeping his eyes trained on her. He held his tongue, knowing she wasn't finished. The silence stretched. She shifted, sat forward and finally placed her mug opposite of Michelangelo's.

"I'm just . . . really,  _really_  tired," she said with some irritation.

Mikey was suddenly unsure of his friend's feelings. She seemed angry out of the blue. He glanced around. It was almost nine. Casey would be finishing up driving her father around to look at Christmas lights. They were due home any minute.

"Well, it has been a long day. I'll give you some space to chill." He moved to stand, but hesitated. Unsure. "Unless," he said cautiously, "you feel like talking about something. Or maybe I should say, someone."

Their eyes locked until she broke the connection. She turned her face away from him, resting her elbows on her knees. She huffed.

Mikey fidgeted. "Maybe," he suggested softly, "if you just tried to talk to him."

Her face snapped up, glaring at him. "Don't."

Flinching, Mikey pressed his mouth closed. He picked at one fingernail and glued his eyes to his cooling cocoa; shoulders hunched. From the corner of his eye, he saw her slump back.

"I've-I've tried," she breathed. "A long time ago. I really tried, Mikey." She sighed.

He didn't know what to say. His brother was a mystery to him. For a long time he'd seemed just about like himself again. The prosthetic was working great. He was going on training runs with them. Had even taken out Foot bots on a few occasions with no sweat. Things were great. On the surface.

But that's not where things mattered. And Mikey had no clue how to make this right for his brother and his friend.

Softly, she said, "What am I doing?"

He peered at her. Their eyes met. Mikey felt his throat tighten at the pain he saw in his friend's eyes. Helplessness made his stomach knot.

"I'll tell you what I'm doing. I'm wasting my life." April dropped her head into her hands. She framed her face, and spoke to the carpeting between her feet. "Waiting around for something that's never going to happen." She flopped back.

Tears welled and one spilled over, cutting a line through the thin film of flour which dusted her cheek.

"This," she croaked and shook her head, hard. "My life isn't a fairy tale. There's no happy ending," she sniffed. "Not for this. Not for . . . Not for us."

"April, please," Mikey's voice came out a whisper, straining to get through his constricting throat. "You can't give up."

She looked at him, face pale and drawn. She pressed one fist to the center of her chest. "As hard as this is, as much as this hurts, I have to be realistic."

Mikey stared, shaking his head slightly, trying to deny her words.

"I need to get on with my life. I-I think it's time for me to grow up."

The door rattled as someone knocked.

She wiped her face with the heels of her hands, stood up and straightened her shirt. She hurried to the door, calling with a voice thick with emotion, "Hang on, Dad."

She unlocked the bolt and pulled the door open. Words of greeting were on her tongue, but her mouth dropped open in surprise. She stood frozen as the world came to a halt.

Donatello stood in the doorway, panting lightly, head lowered. A fine sheen of sweat glittered along the lines of his shoulders, head and neck. His mechanical arm, adorned with shimmering snowflakes, braced against the doorjamb, holding him up.

His searching eyes bore into hers as they stared at one another.

"April," he breathed. "Can . . . Can I come in?"

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Not going to lie - I had Beethoven's 'Ode to Joy' thundering through my mind as I posted this. XD I'm just so darned happy to have finally had a chance to write and UPDATE!
> 
> On that note: Thank you so much for being so patient. Life has been up and down the past few weeks, but I'm just so grateful to you all for the support and reminders that you care and still are interested in my stories. And the little pushes to update - I appreciate it! And I'll do my best to keep the updates coming in a timely manner!
> 
> One last chapter of this baby! How could I not dedicate an entire chapter to April and Donatello!? After all they've been through - they're not out of the woods yet!? Stay tuned!


	22. Finale

_"I really don't mean to push, but I need to see the truth_

_You hide your gold beneath the surface and your_

_your shimmering light._

_You say you never had love._

_You say that you_

_you need to survive._

_…_

_I need to see the truth. I need to see the true you_

_tonight." –Aftergold_ Big Head Todd & the Monsters

**************************************************************

 

On wobbling legs, April moved aside. As Donatello crept forward, Mikey jumped up.

His face darted between the two, contorting as it continuously tripped between shock and astonished joy.

"Donnie!" The name erupted with a hysterical titter. "Bro! You're here! Oh man, I-I'll just, uh, um," he suddenly spun on his heel. He sped from the room towards the kitchen and the fire escape.

Donatello and April exchanged a glance and watched him go.

He called, "See you tomorrow, April! You, too, bro!"

The sound of the window creaking and slamming shut reached them. April and Donatello stood for a moment, speechless and awkward in the ringing silence of Mikey's speedy exit.

At once they both started to speak.

"Do you want something to—"

"I didn't mean to barge—"

"Sorry –"

"Uh, no. I'm sorry."

They fell again into that slippery quiet.

April hastily wiped at her cheeks and cleared her throat. Looking down, April started. "Oh, let me get a towel." With that she slipped from the room nearly as quickly as Mikey had done a moment ago.

Donatello noticed then that his metal arm was dripping onto the carpeting. "Oh gosh," he said, cupping his right hand under to catch any further drips, "I'm sorry about that. It's snowing pretty hard out there."

He stepped back as she returned and dropped to dab at the damp spot. Before he could try to help, she rose and began to gently wipe at his arm. He could feel nothing, but his heart stumbled at her proximity. His eyes were locked on her face and it seemed she pointedly kept her gaze away from his. She kept herself at arm's length and the distance spoke to Donatello's fear.

He closed his hand over hers, halting her movement. "April."

She still didn't look at him, but pulled away, leaving in his grasp, the towel. Hugging herself, she moved around him and with her back to him, in a voice that was falsely light and high, said, "So, what brings you over," she glanced over her shoulder, and her words wavered as her eyes lifted to meet his intense gaze, "so late?"

"I had to see you."

"Oh?"

"It couldn't wait," he started, but fell silent. He held the hand-towel between his fingers, toying with it, tugging and fidgeting with the edges. He sighed and shook his head. Quietly, he said, "I don't know where to start."

"Nothing's wrong at the lair, is there?"

Donatello shook his head mutely.

"Okay." April sat down, a curious, cautious expression on her face. "Why don't you sit . . . just start wherever." Tentatively, she allowed her senses to reach out, testing the vibrations around him, searching for a hint as to his motives. But her apprehension, her tumultuous emotional state just before he'd arrived blurred any unconscious messages he might've been sending.

Was it Donatello who was so . . . vulnerable . . . so raw? Stinging and aching like an old wound reopened. Or was it a reflection of her own state?

He perched lightly on the edge of the cushion. His eyes searched the room, scouring the floor, flitting to the walls hung with Christmas lights and greeting cards, and up to the ceiling. A deep frown creased his brow. He blew out a breath. His throat worked and his mouth opened only to close again. When he looked up, his eyes were huge and glassy.

"I've been stupid. Unbelievably stupid. Monumentally. Exponentially."

"Okay, we've established that," April interrupted. "Do you want to explain what you've been so stupid about? What is it?" Her expression softened, "Is it something you've been working on in the lab? Or the garage?"

Donatello tried not to notice the way her eyes flicked to his prosthetic as she prodded. He felt the old defensiveness prickle at the back of his neck at any hint of pity. With some effort he pushed the feeling away. He was past feeling defensive about his condition. He had to be in order to keep up with his family's demands. And they hadn't gone easy on him – requests for inventions and projects for repair were constantly made. And for that, he was grateful.

And he knew better. The only one pitying him had been himself. All along. The revelation made his stomach knot, coil and sink.

Before he had his thoughts sorted, she straightened.

"Wait. Raph isn't hounding you about building him a new engine for that piece of junk he rolled home two months ago, is he?" Her hands on her lap balled into fists. "I told him you have enough work on your plate. I swear, the next time I see him—"

Donatello held up his hand. The metal fingers flashed. "No, it isn't that." A half-smile flickered over his face, but dropped away as he grew serious. "Actually," he said, "Raph's part of the reason I'm here."

At her darkening expression, he added quickly, "But not for that."

April tipped her head, listening.

Slowly he said, "I've spent the last thirty months, twenty-four days and seven hours being completely and utterly blind. Willfully so, to be honest. And I don't know why. I can't even begin to explain it. But the most important thing now is," he scooted further on the edge of his seat, "I see. Everything. My eyes are open."

April frowned. "You see."

He nodded.

She pointed a finger into her opposite palm. "And that's the most important thing."

He nodded again, looking more hopeful.

She stared out into the room. Felt the spiraling pull of disappointment within her stomach. But then, something flashed within her, like a flint piece of fury striking against the stone of her patience.

"That's what you came here to say to me?" she asked, the edges of her words brittle with disbelief.

From the corner of her eye, she saw him hesitate, then nod again.

She stood up. She paced with her arms crossed tightly across her chest. Holding it in. Holding it all in. But it was too big. Too big to keep locked in the cage of her ribs. Her heart slammed and her throat tightened.

_All this time and this is how he comes to me?_

_Don't cry._

She stopped, glared at him until he shrank back a bit and blinked. Looking all the world like a lost puppy. She continued pacing.

_Stay calm. Remember. You wondered if he'd ever come around at all. Be grateful, April._

Donatello said, "Don't you . . . get what I'm trying to say?"

She froze. A tremor went through her. The silence stretched, tense and oddly foreboding.

"April?"

In a low voice she said, "I'm really glad you finally  _see_. That you  _see_ ," she shook her head, "whatever that means. But no, really. That's . . . That's great. For you."

Donatello stared at her back. Her tone seemed . . . off. He wasn't sure what he'd expected, but it wasn't this. Running a dry tongue over his bottom lip, he decided he needed to clarify.

There was just so much ground to cover. He'd hoped that pointing out to her that he finally saw her feelings for him for what they were would make more of an impact. He'd finally realized that his feelings for her would be returned. Not only that, but he'd accepted the truth of the situation. Thanks to Raph. And the rest of his family.

He needed to say all this and more. So much more. It terrified and exhilarated him: her love for him was real _. Real._

He could only hope that she'd hear him out. That Raph was wrong in thinking it might be too late. He would make things right. If she allowed him to. If she listened to what he was about to say.

He opened his mouth to speak.

April chuckled. It was a broken, small sound, but it filled the corners of his fearful heart.

Donatello stiffened.

She broke off with a sniff and a choked sigh. The sound of it foreboding. Final.

A cold wave of dread washed over him.

Slowly, as if trying out the words, trying them on to see how they fit in her mouth, how they felt as they spilled across her lips, she said, "I'm leaving, Donnie. After the holidays. I'm going away."

He froze. His mouth hung open. All the air had suddenly turned to ice around his head, a bubble of impenetrable, yet invisible fright, making it hard to breathe, let alone speak. His mind numbed in the chill, making it hard to think.

Stubbornly, his lips blundered out a mangled attempt at a word.

_"Wh-What?"_

Speaking magically shattered the blockade surrounding his head. But left in its wake was a scattering, raw terror; an animal panic, a frantic rush of senses all tuned beyond what could be tolerated. From a distance, he felt his mouth shut as a tingling bout of pins and needles ran the length of his metallic arm. His phantom pain – long dormant - erupted in a burning, itching, torment.

He scratched at his left shoulder. Rubbed it and squeezed, trying to make it stop, trying to focus. He searched the floor frantically for help.

"You heard me. I'm leaving," she spat, wheeling around.

Her face was pale but mottled in the way it got when she was really upset, but trying to stay calm. The interior storm she was battling was written clearly in the stiff way she held her upper body. The defiant jutting of her chin. The way he'd seen her get when a rare situation had pushed April too far for too long.

His heart pinched.

_This is my fault._

The pain he saw in her eyes was because of him. Pain that he could commiserate with, for he was the architect of that intricate hurt, wasn't he?

At his worst, he'd wanted his family to pay for his suffering and loss; at his best, he'd pushed away the rare and beautiful thing April had offered to him. And why? For what reason did he have to give aside from his pathetic pride?

He felt sick.

_Oh god. What have I done?_

April huffed an exhalation. Her eyes shifted to the floor and the fury that hardened her expression eased. Revealing beneath a vulnerable softness. An abiding sorrow. She explained quickly, all the words tumbling out in one even breath, "I'm moving my father in with my aunt upstate and once he's settled, I'm leaving."

His face snapped to attention. Maybe it wasn't as bad as he was making it. Maybe there was still hope.

"But . . . Wh-Where? F-For how long? When will," he choked on the word, swallowed and tried again, "Will you be back?"

She shrugged. Feigning indifference. Voice strained with a forced-sounding levity, she explained, "I have no idea." Then, "Does it matter?"

"April," he said, full of hurt, voice tight, "of course it does."

"Why?" And with his wince her eyes flashed, in a kind of triumphant anguish.

Crushed, he blinked helplessly about himself, speechless. His heart galloped in his chest. He started to shake. The phantom pain in his left hand and arm now turned to a savage itching. He ignored it. Focused on the issue at hand.

He had to make this right. He had to fix this mess.

_Okay, she's angry. She has a right to be angry. To be furious. You've pushed her away for nearly three years and at the very best, returned her friendship with coldness. What did you expect, genius?_

He glanced up at her and still there remained the look of cold triumph, but also, larger the longer he stared, that deep, aching sorrow.

His heart tripped. The word was a puff of strangled air that he strained to say.  _"Please."_

She waved her hand through the air. Dismissing him. Done.

_Oh god, Raph was right. It's too late._

His breath hitched. Tears stung. His missing limb throbbed in time with his hammering heart.

_No. I won't let this happen._

Donatello slipped from the couch. He fell forward onto his knees.

April's started.

He dropped his head, shook it once, then, he raised his eyes. They were huge, glassy and bright with regret. "I have no right to ask you not to leave. But I'm going to."

He took a shuddering breath. "Don't go. Please don't. Don't go because . . . because of me. Do whatever you want to me, I deserve everything and more. But . . . April. Think about the guys. Don't punish them because I've hurt you. It took me so long not to lash out at them for my pain. Don't fall into the same trap that I did."

Her breath hitched and she wiped at her cheeks, looking away.

"I know I don't deserve," his voice trembled, "anything from you. But I need you to hear me when I tell you that I'm sorry. Because I am. I'm so sorry."

He dropped his gaze, his breath caught in a suppressed groan. He pressed the heel of both hands into his eyes.

"I'm so, so, terribly sorry for everything. For everything I've said or done to hurt you. You were nothing but good to me. And I treated you like dirt."

He curled forward, pressing harder.

April's eyes widened as she noticed the metal of his left hand cutting into the flesh of his brow just above his mask. "Donnie," she croaked. "Stop. Stop it."

He shook his head. "No. I need to tell you. I have to get it out. I-I thought it wasn't real. I convinced myself that I knew what your heart was telling you. I was . . . am so stupid." His voice cracked, "I ruined everything out of spite and stupidity. I threw away a chance that'll never come again."

She moved closer, took his wrists and tugged gently at them.

He resisted for a second before relenting. His hands moved away to either side of his face.

Her breath caught in a sharp sob, for there was a long, deep gash running just above his left eye dribbling blood down the side of his face. A deep bruise marked his left cheek.

"Oh, Donnie," she murmured. "Look what you've done to yourself."

"I deserve it. I'm a fool," he whispered.

She shook her head, unable to speak.

"If you never forgive me, I'll understand. If you never want to see me again, I'll-I'll accept it. I will."

She closed for eyes, fighting the surge of tumbling emotions. Her hands, still holding his wrists, began to shake.

"But, I can't go on without telling you this . . . without finally telling you . . . I have to . . . no matter what the outcome."

A tear welled and spilled over, mingling with the trickle of blood coloring his bruised cheek.

"April," he started.

Her eyes widened.

"April, I lov—"

The front door slammed open. April jumped back, releasing Donatello who slumped back onto his heels, as her father rushed into the room, beaming, in mid-sentence.

". . . to say the blue ones! Yes. Casey, the blue lights are my favorite. Second are the red." He looked at April. "We saw the lights coming home."

His smile faltered as his gaze flicked from his daughter to Donatello who was slowly climbing to stand. The young mutant looked as though he were about to be violently sick all over their carpet. And his face was bleeding.

"Oh, Donatello," he said. "Are you feeling okay?"

Donatello offered a weak smile that was more of a grimace as he stooped to retrieve the hand-towel from the coffee table from earlier. He dabbed at his cheek, then turned slightly away as he held the towel to his face, his head low between his shoulders.

Kirby turned a bewildered look to his daughter. "Is everything okay? I-I thought Mikey was staying to help you bake."

April stood by, partially in shock, still unable to say anything.

Casey sauntered up behind her father. He strung an arm around Mr. O'Neil's shoulders. His bulk made the older man bump forward a step. "Sorry we're a bit later than usual. I made sure to go down forty-second to that house I spotted a few days ago." He whistled low. "They did that place up to the nines, huh, Mr. O'Neil?"

Kirby chuckled. "It was very, very pretty. Lots of blue. That's my favorite."

"That's right it is! That's why I wanted to take you over there," Casey said and gave him a rough, but loving shake.

"Well, it's very late, now. I think I'll turn in." He ducked his head as Casey pulled away, noticing for the first time that April had a guest. Mr. O'Neil said quietly to April, "Will you make sure, honey?"

Starting as if awakening from a dream, April nodded. "Ye-Yeah, Dad. I'll make sure there's no bats in your room." She took her father by the elbow and moved to leave, tossing a glance at Casey, but not looking in Donatello's direction. "Be right back."

Casey, his gaze never leaving Donatello, sidled across the room and fell into the loveseat. "Haven't seen much of you around lately."

Donatello said nothing.

"How's the arm working? Still looks pretty cool to me."

Donatello dabbed at his eye and winced. Ignoring the question.

Casey's laugh faded to a soft cough.

"You been in a fight?" Casey's blue eyes flashed with sharp interest. When Donatello merely gave a short, sharp shake of his head, he fell back in his seat. "Okay." He scratched at the dark stubble along his jaw. "Then, you wanna tell me what you're doing here?"

Donatello's eyes narrowed. "I don't need to explain myself to you," he rasped, voice still affected from the storm of emotions roiling through him.

Casey grinned. He sat up. "Nah, man. 'Course not." He folded his thick fingers and shrugged. "We're all friends here, am I right? I'm just, you know, curious."

"I just came by," Donatello muttered. He stood awkwardly, unsure what to do with himself. He sniffed, looked at the blood on the towel and sighed. Miserable.

"Almost midnight. You should probably get going," Casey said with a slight wave of his fingers. He brought his arms back behind his head and crossed his feet at the ankles. When Donatello didn't move, Casey added, "Run along."

Irritation flashed. "No. I think I'll stay. April and I were in the middle of something and –"

"Oh, ho ho!  _Really_." Casey slapped his thighs and stood up. He crowded into Donatello's space, eyed him close. Said quietly, "I'm going to try and be polite, but it ain't going to be easy. 'Cause I've been watching a really sweet, smart girl I care very deeply about being strung along by this asshole I know. And I've had about enough of it."

Donatello's lip curled back in a partial snarl. "Back off."

"Make me." Casey poked a finger into Donatello's upper plastron. "Whatever you think you're doin' here, forget it. Get lost."

A low growl rose up from the back of Donatello's throat. "Touch me again and I won't be the only one who needs a prosthetic."

Casey chuckled. He stepped back and stretched. The muscles rippled beneath the jean jacket he wore. "Don't try an' threaten me, Robo-cop."

Donatello trembled with building rage. The edges of his vision grew hazy with a reddish tint. But he stopped himself. Through gritted teeth, he blew out a breath. He didn't want a fight with his brother's friend. Especially not tonight. Not here.

"Look," he said, trying to be reasonable. "I just need to finish talking to her."

"About?"

"That's none of your business."

Casey's eyes twinkled behind the thick fringe of dark lashes. "I'm not gonna repeat myself. But I'll try and make this simple." He cracked his knuckles and crossed his arms. "You're done talking to April. You're done stringing her along. You're done messin' with her head. You. Are. Done. Got it?"

Donatello scowled and stepped forward. The low growl grew louder.

Casey cocked his head. Raising his hands he said, "Now, now. I ain't the bad guy here. But if you wanna go, let's take it outside." Casey motioned towards the door.

"Either way, you're leaving. 'Cuz whatever it is you think you need to say to Red . . . forget it. You lost any chance you might've had with her a long time ago. And if you think I'm gonna stand by and watch you toy with her feelings, you're in for a shock. She doesn't need you in her life. She needs someone who'll take care of her. Who'll appreciate how good she is. And that person isn't you."

"Casey," April said.

Both men jumped in surprise.

"Uh." Casey rubbed the back of his head and laughed nervously.

Coldly, "Thank you for bringing Dad home. But I think you need to leave now."

"What – but April," he started and chuckled nervously. "Ah, hell. Didn't mean nothin'. I just . . . that is, I didn't mean - Donnie-boy here, just got the wrong idea. I was setting him straight."

"Wrong idea about what?"

"Well," Casey huffed a laugh and jabbed his hands into his front pockets. "I didn't wanna do this quite like this, but, uh, I was goin' to, uh . . ." He pulled a small box out from the front pocket of his jacket and lunged forward to hand it to her. He shot back and grinned widely. "Merry Christmas, babe."

April's shocked expression hardened. "Excuse me?"

"Erm," Casey covered his mouth and chuckled. His brows came up together as his eyes crinkled, chagrined. "Sorry. Heh. Just slipped out. Habit I picked up from Rex at the shop."

April eyed him, then studied the gift in her hand, seeing Donatello stiffen from the corner of her vision. She felt his wave of fear like a blast of chilled air, tainted around the edges with something sour, feeling like dread or despair. Or surrender.

"Well, here goes," Casey said, shifting from foot to foot. "April, would you like to, uh, maybe try getting more, uh, more serious-like . . . with me, I mean. Us."

April stood motionless, dumbfounded.

"'Cuz I've wanted to tell you this for a really long time. I care about you, a lot. And I was hoping maybe we could try taking our friendship to a higher level. Like, um, you know, wanna go steady with me?"

April closed her eyes. She felt the room tip. The future splitting before her into two paths, each with unique peril and unforeseen consequences. Did she care about this young man before her? Yes. There was no doubt. He'd been a friend when things were at their worst. He was rough around the edges, but had a heart of gold, she knew this. Saw it in action with the way he looked after his little sister, the way he defended his dad despite being abusive and cruel. He was loyal and fun. And in fact, she did love him. In a way.

But did she love him in the way she did with Donatello?

Just thinking his name filled her with a comfort, a glow that was both new and old. A feeling like coming home after being gone for a terribly long time.

Despite the interminable stretch of years that were filled with yearning and unrequited longing. Despite being on the verge of giving up on this love forever. Her love for him remained. Untouched, somehow, and still as real as ever.

There was nothing to decide here. No choice to be made. No, April knew what she wanted. It was never clearer than now.

And she knew she stood upon a crossroads. A test of character. For she was perched on the very edge of losing him forever, with just a word. It was in her hands. It was up to her. She could take revenge for all the wasted time. All the hurt and longing. She could destroy him for what he'd done to her.

It was her chance. It was simply a question of whether she would take this opportunity or not.

When she opened her eyes, she had her answer.

And Donatello was gone.

She started. "Where –"

Casey shrugged. "I dunno. The kitchen, I guess," he said, looking confused as to why she was so worried about the mutant's absence, when she should've been answering his proposal. "So, uh, what do you say?"

She whirled and ran from the room, without a word to him, dropping his present. She left it there, without a second glance.

Casey stared at the gift.

Slowly, he began to nod his head. He might be rough around the edges, uneducated and from a broken home, but he wasn't stupid. There'd been a chance that she would reject him. He'd known how long she'd pinned after the mutant-boy. How much she cared about him just based on how much she talked about the guy. Which was constantly.

No, he wasn't stupid.

Then again, he was stupid enough to ever think that someone as special as April would even give a loser like him a chance. Donatello didn't deserve her, no. But neither did he.

Eyes welling, he stooped and grabbed the forgotten gift from the floor. He dusted it off and pushed it back into the pocket over his heart. He coughed, wiped roughly at his nose and slipped out the front door without looking back.

# # #

In the kitchen, April caught Donatello as he ducked to exit by the fire escape. She grabbed his prosthetic arm and pulled, hard. The metal groaned and gave a sharp screech. Stunned, the turtle clambered back inside, half-falling over the bottom of the window sash. His long legs tangled. He tumbled sideways and the momentum brought April to her bottom with a gasp.

They rolled apart, sitting on the floor.

"What are you –"

"Where are you going?!"

Donatello looked out the window, then back at her. "I thought I . . . I thought I should leave."

"Why?"

He blinked.

"You can't go. You were about to tell me something, remember?"

His head ducked. He glanced up at her, mournfully. "Yes."

April's brows raised with expectation.

Donatello frowned and said, "But Casey . . ."

"Casey?"

As if just remembering now that she'd left him back in the other room, she glanced over her shoulder. She fidgeted. "Oh. Uh-oh."

She sat in contemplation. Knowing she'd hurt someone else tonight, however inadvertently. And briefly, the idea that pain and causing hurt was an inevitable stumbling block in this life made her heart pinch and her eyes sting.

Under her breath, she murmured, "Oh Casey. I'm sorry." She faced Donatello. "I think he left."

Donnie said nothing, looking at her with a morose expression.

Any lingering anger she might have had at Donatello had faded back to a numbed resignation. He'd hurt her, in the beginning with his lashing out in pain, then later with his avoidance, his refusal to accept her feelings, it was true. But what she wanted wasn't some petty retribution.

She just wanted to be able to love him and hopefully, have that love returned.

Donatello shifted and looked out the open window as a gust of wind blew in a swirling trail of snowflakes. The chilled breeze brought her out of her musing. She realized she hadn't addressed his unspoken question.

"But, listen, as far as Casey . . . we're just friends." And she hoped that wouldn't change after tonight. But that was a worry for another day.

"Friends?"

"That's all."

Donatello nodded, then shook his head. "I don't want to get in the way, April. I've done enough damage."

His throat worked. He thought of what Casey had said. The guy wasn't wrong. He didn't deserve to waste any more of April's time after what he'd done to her these past years. And despite what April just said, he would not judge her if she wanted to try and find something like happiness with Casey.

"I-I should go. I'm sorry."

"No more apologies for tonight." She reached out and took his hand, stopping him from rising by caressing the back of it with her thumb. She took a deep breath and leveled a look at him. "Donnie, I would like to hear what you wanted to say to me. What you were about to say just before my dad came home."

"I don't think that's a good idea."

"Please?"

Donatello stared at her. "Now?"

She nodded.

He opened his mouth, moved to speak, then stalled. She waited. He tried again.

"I was going to say. What I was about to tell you, uhm," he swallowed again, fidgeting. He blinked slowly. Softly, he said, "I . . . I love you."

She gasped, covering her mouth.

"I love you, April. I love you. I've always loved you. From the second I first saw you, I have done nothing but fall more and more in love with you. I love you. I will always love you."

Now that he'd spoken it, he couldn't seem to stop saying it. He babbled it like a lunatic. Like a fanatic. And it was both terrifying and wonderful! Like plunging to a certain death on a roller coaster you knew was missing a track at the very bottom.

It was too late, now.

It was as though years of denying himself the right to feel this way about his friend, of denying himself the privilege of even whispering those taboo words to himself, alone at night, had finally eroded all composure. All propriety. And he didn't give a damn. Not anymore.

A crooked, half-crazed smile broke out over his face. He was giddy with his confession, euphoric and terrified and liberated. He met April's watering gaze with tear-filled eyes of his own.

"I absolutely love you."

"Donnie!" she cried, choking on her overjoyed laughter. "I can't believe it - I love you, too."

With that, April fell forward, throwing her arms around his neck.

They shuddered in each other's embrace, laughing and murmuring sweet words unencumbered by guilt, regret or shame.

And from the rooftop just adjacent, Mikey witnessed the embrace as he stood on tip-toe to see better.

Raphael, Leonardo and Splinter hovered just behind, shivering ankle-deep in the eddying snow, all equally on edge ever since Mikey had called them to this rooftop an hour earlier, saying it was a supreme emergency of epic proportions. They'd gathered and had waited for any sign. Any sign at all. Each silent and worried in their own way for their brother and son.

Somewhere a bell tolled midnight.

And in the deepening darkness, the tinted flakes –- pink, green, blue - whirling around the strings of light, framed the scene. Where just inside the warm yellow illumination of April's kitchen window, the small family watched as Donatello and the love of his life opened their hearts to one another.

And finally, kissed.

 **"WOO HOO!"**  Mikey pumped his fist in the air, leaping in joy.

Splinter wrapped his arms around his sons, pulling them close as they laughed, babbling about their brother's good fortune at last. Splinter hugged them tight, touched by the scene below.

Filled for the first time, in too long of a time, with hope.

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Oh gosh, I'm a bit choked up here.
> 
> Thank you, everyone. For your continued support and wonderful comments, and patience!
> 
> What a joy it was to write this ending. I hope you enjoyed the ride and loved the ending as much as I loved writing it. I will be working on my other WIPs - be sure to follow me, if you're not already, to keep up with my new stories and updates.
> 
> Until then, I'll see you in another story!


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